


Treat This Right

by akaVertigo



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician), American Idol RPF, Husbands (TV), Kris Allen (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Big Bang Challenge, Kradam, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-13
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-12 01:33:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 38,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akaVertigo/pseuds/akaVertigo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With half of Club Idol's strippers and wait-staff out sick, Kris is praying for a miracle—and reinforcements. What he gets is leather, eyeliner, glitter, and Crayola-colored highlights wrapped up in a Queen song and a brilliant smile. Is it any wonder Kris forgets to actually ask if Adam is there for a job?</p><p>  <i>It's only the next day that Kris finds out just who he'd stripped naked and shoved onstage...and gone to bed with.</i></p><p>A story about strippers, cocktails, billionaires, Mexican street food, and Mr. Kristopher Allen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Kradam Big Bang 2012. Accompanying art of incalculable awesomeness by [faerielissa](http://faerielissa.livejournal.com/364301.html)

**X+x+x+x+X**

_"Minor things can become moments of great revelation when encountered for the first time."_ **~Dame Margot Fonteyn**

When Kris sees the guy come in—leather, eyeliner, glitter, and Crayola-colored highlights—he nearly falls to his knees in gratitude. At least, he would if he was a little less enlightened about the state of the floors at Idol.

"What are—" the guy starts when Kris grabs an arm and drags the man to the dressing room. Clearly whatever Brad said to get the guy to come in didn’t prepare him for the sight of the war zone. The place is packed, no, _stuffed_. Every rack table is loaded to full capacity, which is great, it’s awesome, except that half of those tables have empty glasses. The floor seats are even worse off; Kris is pretty sure some of the customers are drinking _water_.

All because of the goddamn shellfish.

Jared runs into him, literally, when they're halfway across the room. “Kris! Listen, man, you’ve got to get back behind the bar. Matt’s on the verge of fighting the worm for squatter rights to the bottom of the bottle. He can’t find your mix notes. Also he kind of wants your head for making mix notes.”

Kris’ gut curls a notch tighter. “Okay, I got it. Give me—what?” He turns back, obeying the tug on his hand to see the guy watching him in baffled curiosity. Kris looks down; they’re holding hands. When did that happen? He lets go automatically, looking back at Jared. There’s a confusion peeking through the exhaustion. “Look, I’ve got to get him—”

“Adam,” the guy offers.

“—what? Oh, right, Adam, hi. I’ve got to get Adam set up for the stage and then I’ll be back at bar. Keep Matt from escaping until then. He won't run if he knows there's someone watching.”

“Goddamn shellfish,” Jared says, and shoves his loaded tray into Kris’ hands. “Table four. I’ll see to Matt.”

Kris doesn’t waste time whining. Table four is on the other side of the room, which may as well be Switzerland in relation to the dressing room, but the night has no room for complaining.

“Shellfish?” the guy, Adam, asks while they’re towing through the crowd. He keeps in step with Kris despite the shoving. Kris can’t help remembering his own first night, always on the verge of tripping into a table.

“ _Goddamn_ shellfish,” Kris says automatically. “It’s, look, I’m not saying it’s Tommy’s fault—Brad must've told you about Tommy—but he’s one of those guys, y’know? The kind who must have been a goat in a past life because he never gets sick from the crap he eats. He’s a garbage disposal with the impulse control of an eight year old. I'm all for trying new things, but there are some colors cheese just shouldn't be. The kind of colors that are a clear warning to stay away, not host an office pizza party.” He reaches table four, slips the drinks off the tray, collects the cash, smiles, and rounds back towards the dressing room with the guy—Adam, damn it—Adam in tow.

“All I’m saying—” Kris shoves open the dressing room door with his hip before Adam can get a chance to help, “—is none of this would’ve happened with actual pizza. There are no stomach epidemics with pizza.”

In Kris’ experience, dressing rooms are sardine cans with delusions of efficiency, with the sort of lightning that feels compelled to be brutal to be effective. Nobody ever remembers to put away their personal junk. The back wall is a wall of lockers, which gives the room the hilarious surrealism of a high school porno. Johnny’s _My Little Pony_ stickers don’t help. Kris’ own niche in the wall is marked with a postcard: three rectangles of color afloat on a canvas: _White Center_.

At the mirrors, Kris shoves makeup and body lotions aside as politely as he can to clear a spot. "OK, do you—you need things. Yes. Okay. Allergies?"

"Excuse me?"

"Allergies. To shadow, blush, foundation, anything? Because we have some hypoallergenic stuff somewhere, and there was a tryout last month who inflated because of cheap lipstick. The health plan doesn't cover balloon animals." Kris means to sound serious, he really does, but he's on his last nerve.

The guy laughs. At Kris.

It's a nice laugh, nonetheless.

For a moment, Kris suspends his breakdown to actually look at the man. Tall, fit, wearing a jacket with feathers at the elbow; it’s easy to see him as Brad’s friend. But the river-blue eyes are worth a mention for their own merit, and he’s got a wide, generous mouth. He looks like someone willing to be a little wicked and a lot amused. Kris thinks Cassidy really owes Brad for this one.

"I'm not allergic to much aside from pistachios and hardcore Republicans," the guy says. "Definitely nothing that would show up in an eye shadow palette. When are you going on?"

“What?” Kris says, because that’s his intellectual capacity tonight. “Oh, right. No, I don’t. I mean, I’m not. I don’t dance.”

"Why?"

The plain disbelief is a little gratifying. Kris looks up from pillaging Eric’s supplies (he’ll apologize later, if they survive) to catch the blatant appreciation. It’s nothing new; Kris spends his night sweating through a t-shirt two sizes too small, helping drunk, horny people get decisively drunker. Ogling is part of the package. Even back in New York, there was plenty of ogling during the—

“I don’t dance,” Kris repeats. It comes out unfriendly within the confines of the small room. He tries to soften it with, “I just help at the bar.”

“You must be good.” It sounds a little sly, but maybe that’s just Kris’ overheated imagination.

“I’m great. Lose the pants.” Kris kneels and reaches for the eagle wings belt buckle (seriously?), ignoring the guy's startled _whoa_ , and pulling. The denim doesn’t go easy. “Okay, man. Nothing against advertising, but you're gonna have to rethink the wardrobe choice or radically improve your changing time. We have about five minutes."

A large hand curls around Kris' wrist. “Five minutes is plenty.”

Because of course, Brad sent a flirt. With really, really warm palms and no calluses at all, and _seriously_ , five minutes. Kris tugs the belt off with more brutality than civility. He looks up, seeing that wicked potential surfacing in the blue eyes, a surprising amount of focus behind them.

“Flirting with coworkers does not a successful audition make,” he says.

Adam laughs again—joyous, friendly, sexy—and bends his knees down to Kris' eye level. He's still got one hand wrapped around Kris' pulse when he tucks the other under Kris' chin.

“Could you elaborate about the employee benefits?” he asks, almost sweet. “For motivation.”

Kris' mouth is dry. It's probably because he's been pinballing all night, or because he downed that rummy shot after the third dancer called in dead, or because Idol is thirsty work. Or because the thumb under his chin is moving in very, very distracting circles. Kris licks his lips. The blue eyes gleam.

“Three minutes,” Kris reminds him.

Adam smiles. “Give me two.”

****

+x+x+x+

LA is full of _how-you-got-here_ stories, and Kris likes to think of his as starting in a pathetic little bar called Ted's squatting in the armpit of Beverly Hills, which sounds like the most predictable set-up for the most predictable film ever. Which, to be fair, it kind of was.

Kris’ hiring was mostly accidental (not unlike the car crash that sent the previous bartender away for an extended DUI), and mostly ineffective. Officially, he was a barback; realistically, nobody was picky about what was actually in the glass. His second week in, Kris realized he could mess up as much as he wanted provided he still landed the vodka in the glass. He started playing, experimenting. Some of the results were horrible, some were worse. Some got noticed.

“What the bloody hell am I drinking?” asked the guy. The accent startled Kris awake.

“I have no idea,” he said honestly. He reached for the man’s glass. “Sorry, I can…”

“Hn,” the man said. He raised the glass for another swallow, not looking happy about it. Kris wondered if he’d want to talk to the owner, Ted. If there’d be trouble. He could get fired. Kris figured he was due.

Instead he got: “Can you make it again?”

“Maybe?”

“You’ll have to do better than that,” the man said. “Take off your shirt.”

“Excuse me?” Kris held up his hands. Maybe getting Ted wasn’t a bad idea, after all. “I think you’re looking for a different bar.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m married.” Which, _what_? “Your leg, what’s wrong with it?” He blocked Kris’ hands, protecting his drink. “It’s fine, leave it. I asked about your leg.”

“And I didn’t say anything,” Kris said. He wanted to turn away, but the leg comment made him too self-conscious to walk away. “Take a hint.”

Unexpectedly, that got him a mean-eyed slice of approval. “Good. We’ll start you on a trial basis: two weeks, half-pay, half-tips. If you make it past that, we’ll talk real hours. Do you live near here?”

It was the tone, blatant authority of it he was too used to obeying. Kris’s, “Yeah,” was automatic.

“Move. You’re obviously not getting paid enough to live anywhere habitable.” A card slid across the greasy tabletop. “Seven o’clock tomorrow. Don’t bother showing if you’re going to be showing up in that. Buy a decent shirt.”

And that’s how Kris met Simon.

****

+x+x+x+

“I’m going to kill you, gut you, stuff you, and sell you as a gluten-free appetizer on the boardwalk,” Matt yells.

“Like you can cook,” Kris says, pushing past the crowd. He reaches the bar, presses his hands flat, and heaves himself up and over, smoothly as a screw turning. There’s some whistling and dollar bill waving for his trouble, but Kris shows his empty palms in thanks before turning to the bottles. It’s just as well Brad is out of action with the rest of the plague victims; he’s always nagging Kris about putting on a free show.

“Shut up and peddle your poison, barbarian,” Matt says. Kris can’t see his face, too busy with the bottles, but it sounds like he’s flipping him off.

The chaos settles into a rhythm. Order, drink, cash. Order, drink, cash. Pick up line, order, drink, cash. Usually dancers swing by the bar to catch a breath, a drink, and stir up profits, but tonight that’s a no go; Kris feels strangely lonely.

“Brad’s guy arrived okay?” Matt asks.

“Yeah,” Kris says. “He should be out soon.”

“Think he’ll fall off the stage like the one last month?” Matt says because he’s an optimist.

“If he does, you’re going in after him. Preferably naked. Is Cass still hiding in his office?”

“Praying for reinforcements,” Matt says. “He did two sets before you came in, though. You know, before we had two more people call out and he went nonresponsive.”

“Nice time to recapture your faith,” Kris says.

“He's a neo-classicist fruitarian,” Matt says, completely serious.

Kris kind of loves LA.

He’s rattling together bitters and rye when the stage track changes, rhythmic bass picking up pace and hitting harder.

_You need coolin', baby, I'm not foolin',  
I'm gonna send you back to schoolin'._

He must’ve missed Adam’s name being announced (or whatever name he bothered to give Monte), but there he is, coming out into the melting lights. He’s still wearing the feather-elbows jacket which is, yes, very dramatic, but God-only-knows how heavy the hot leather must feel on stage. Kris feels sympathetic relief when Adam whips it off.

And that’s…that’s where things get confusing.

The guy on stage is an amateur. Kris is no veteran himself, but he knows professionalism when he sees it, and he’s not seeing it in Adam’s pauses, the not-quite smooth swing of his hips, the stuttered dip to his knees. It’s all slapdash, predictable and uneducated if enthusiastic. It’s clearly the work of someone who’s never had to do it.

So why can’t Kris stop staring?

_I'm gonna give you every inch of my love,  
Gonna give you my love._

****

+x+x+x+

Idol officially closes at two, and while some nights they’re willing to be lax about closing the door, tonight everybody is ready to throw the customers out head first. Monte cuts off the music after the last customer is officially gone, and the silence is—medicinal. Holy. Amazing.

“Jesus, Allah, Buddha, Superman.” Matt falls across the bar top, fingers stretching like he needs to pop the joints. “I quit. For real, I’m done, the hell with the booze and the thongs and, and that guy who tried to tip with loose change. _Change_. Fuck change. I’m going to law school.”

“Can you afford law school?” Kris says.

“I’ll get a loan,” Matt says.

Kris nods. “Better make sure they know you have a decent paying job when you apply.”

“Recommendations?”

“Well,” Kris says, “I hear booze and thongs are paying in cold, hard quarters nowadays.”

“You’re short and mean, what’s up with that?” Matt grins and rolls his shoulders back, his whole body flowing backwards into standing. Kris appreciates the look of it, even if _that’s_ never going to happen.

“Where’s your boy?” Matt asks, upending stools. Kris is always a little surprised to remember they’re not nailed down. “I saw him cozying up to the tables. Brave man.”

“You were expecting him to run, too?” Kris says.

“Hell, I’d run if Simon didn’t have a contract for my dick locked in his safe.”

“You mean your soul, right?” Kris says.

“I know my priorities."

“Classy,” Kris says. “He didn’t run. You’ve got to give him credit for that.”

“He’s one of Brad’s, right?” Matt says. “Are we talking friend or, y’know, _friend_?” He does something awful, truly awful, with his eyebrows.

“Never do that with your face again,” Kris says. “And I didn’t exactly get a chance to ask either of them for details. Does it matter? He showed up, he helped out.”

“Thank God for friends who look good naked,” Matt says. “Does he know how to tip out, though?”

“Probably?” Kris says. Matt scowls at him, which, okay, point. “Right, right, I’ll go explain the facts of life.”

“Aw, look at you,” Matt grins. “All grown up and worldly, like you weren’t getting the same lesson last week.”

“Months,” Kris says. “It’s been months.”

“Days at most,” Matt says and tries to swat Kris’ ass with a bar towel. Kris squeezes a lime in his fist, letting it drip down Matt's shirt and goes to find Adam.

It’s a quick search; away from the main floor and the bar, Idol has only so many places to be out of sight. Kris skips the bathrooms and the private rooms and heads straight for the dressing room where Adam is straddling a chair and talking to Eric. In Swedish.

Huh. All right, then.

They wrap up when Kris walks in, Eric waving a tired but friendly hand on his way out and Adam smiling in welcome. Kris shrugs, he hates interrupting people, and goes to his locker. He swaps his reeking, exhausted black t-shirt for a fresh button up of the sort Brad typically threatens to bury dead rats in. Then again, Brad also repeatedly accuses Kris of wearing plaid because he knows nobody would try to steal his shirts for a quick change. (Brad is not wrong.)

“That’s a horrible shirt,” Adam says.

“Thank you,” Kris says. “You speak Swedish?”

“Enough to talk my way into subpar clubs and get kicked out of the better ones.” He jerks his head at the door. “Please tell me I didn’t hallucinate that man. Vikings aren’t my go-to fantasy but....”

“He’s a good guy,” Kris says pointedly.

“Ah,” Adam says. He’s sharp. “Straight?”

“Taken.”

“Worse,” Adam sighs. He leans back then rocks forward, arms dangling over the chair’s back. “Oh, hey. I’m sorry, am I supposed to be helping with something right now? I didn’t mean to duck out. I just got a bit distracted.”

“Nah, you’re in the clear. The porter will be in in a few hours to rake away the worst of the damage.” There’s a moment of unease in Kris’ stomach while he debates changing out of his work jeans—black, tight, not his idea of comfort—into easier denim. But it’s been a long shift, and he’s really too tired and too used to it to care about showing some leg to a stranger. Kris pulls over a chair and skins the jeans off, pausing a moment to stretch out his bad leg and rub his knee.

“Cass is closing out the cash box,” Kris says, pulling on loose Levis and standing up. “I don’t know if Brad mentioned it, but the house fee is a seventy-five on a weekend. There’s another thirty for the tip-out, but everything else after that is in your pocket. Seriously, though, you saved our butts showing up last minute. When you talk to Cass, don’t be shy about mentioning it; he might half the house fee.”

“We talked when I dropped off my tip money, don’t worry about it,” Adam says easily.

Kris stares. “Wait, hold on a moment, you gave him _all_ your tips?” Good grief, he’s worse than Kris was. “Why?”

“I don’t need it,” Adam says. Kris gives him a face full of incredulity. “No, seriously, it’s okay. I didn’t come here expecting to get paid.”

“That doesn’t mean you deserve to get cheated,” Kris says. “You made an effort; you deserve your due.”

“I’d rather have dinner,” Adam says. He pushes off the chair, showing off his height. “If you’re up for it.”

“I,” Kris starts. He’s used to being asked out at Idol, but not in the dressing room. “It’s kind of late for dinner.”

“Breakfast is good, too,” Adam says with a complete lack of subtlety. He walks over to Kris’ locker and peers at the postcard. “This is reminding me of something. It’s a Rothko, right?”

“Yes,” Kris says.

“There’s a thing about them, isn’t there? Something….” Adam drums his fingers. “Nope, can’t remember it. Are you a student?”

“I’ve got a GED,” Kris says. “Listen, man, about your tips—”

“Are you an artist?” Two steps and he’s got Kris’ hands in his, lifting them up for inspection. “No paint under your fingernails—hmm, no manicure either. Straight?”

“No.” Kris tugs his hands back; Adam’s grip automatically slips down to circle his wrists.

“Taken?”

“No comment,” Kris says, and Adam lets go. “Look, do you want your money or—”

“Ah! I’ve got it!” Adam points to the postcard. His nail polish is chipped. “I know what it reminds me of. Oh my God, this is awesome, we need to go right now.”

“What?” Kris says.

"Come _on_."

****

+x+x+x+

"—both, the key lime and the chestnut. And, hmm, okay, let's throw in a chocolate coconut, some crème brûlée, grapefruit, whatever the aqua ones are, a lychee rose— that’s new, right? Passion fruit, pineapple, and the pumpkin cinnamon. Tea?”

It takes Kris a moment to realize the last question is directed at him and not supernaturally awake girl behind the counter. “Sure?”

“Your wish is our command,” Adam says, handing over a credit card and watching the little—cookies?—get arranged in a wax-white box. They look like doll food.

“I don’t remember wishing to visit a bakery at three AM,” Kris says. He looks around at the banquette tables, the glass cases, Adam.

“Kris, nobody wishes for macaroons to happen,” Adam says. “You simply have to be grateful when they do. But, whatever. Look at these beauties and tell me they’re not a masterpiece.”

Kris holds up his hands in surrender. Surrender, in fact, has been a continuous process ever since he let Adam lead him out of the club and into a cab.

The macaroons actually do resemble Kris’ postcard. They’re crispy and firm, turning immediately chewy in his mouth. Kris laughs slightly at himself, hoovering the brightly colored crumbs out of his palm.

“Missed a speck,” Adam says. He brushes his thumb over the corner of Kris’ mouth. “There, got it.”

“Thanks,” Kris says.

“Anytime. Do you want some more tea? Or we could test drive the rest of the menu; they have a pecan caramel version that’s better than heroin.”

“It’s pretty late,” Kris says carefully. “And this is pretty much the first time I’ve sat down all day and night.”

“Right,” Adam says. He picks up a macaroon and twists the lemon-colored halves apart. “So we should probably...."

“Would you like to come home with me?” Kris blurts.

“What?” Adam says. The broken macaroon pops out of his hands, bouncing off the table and into his lap.

“Oh,” Kris says. “Sorry, I thought—oh, wow, sorry, I completely misread that. This, I mean, I misread this. This is—sorry. I wasn’t even meant to come in tonight, but with the body count and all, it’s been pretty crazy. I mean, I’m about five minutes from turning completely useless and this—sorry. Um, good night.”

He’s halfway out of his chair when Adam lunges—okay, _reaches_ —across the table to take his hand.

“Hey,” Adam says. “Let’s get out of here.”

****

+x+x+x+

“I didn’t know you and Brad were neighbors,” Adam says, like the statement has anything to do with anything. “When did you move in?”

Kris does a quick tally. “About a month ago, right about the same time I got regular hours at Idol.”

“I see,” Adam nods. “And how long ago were you robbed?”

“Shut up,” Kris says. He flicks on the light, illuminating…not much. The apartment has two rooms, not counting the bathroom, and one door, not counting the closet or the fridge. Kris came to LA with less than three thousand in savings, two bags of clothes meant for a different climate entirely, and a lot of naiveté on the subject of living like a Real Person. He can still remember the landlord’s surprise at Kris’ surprise at finding the apartment empty. Did Kris think it would be furnished, he’d asked, fascinated, and Kris had been almost too tired to be embarrassed about the fact that he hadn’t thought much at all.

Still, Adam shouldn't be making the expression he is. It’s not that bad.

“I have a couch,” Kris points out, because he totally does.

“And,” Adam lifts the corner of a tablecloth, “a _cardboard box_ for a table. Good God, Kris, I’ve seen tree houses with better furniture.”

“Well, unless you’re suddenly up to climbing, I suggest you deal with it,” Kris says. He doesn’t see the problem; the box is large and sturdy, and the tablecloth goes all the way to the floor.

“Sorry,” Adam says sounding anything but. “I’m sure it’s very easy to clean.”

“You’re kind of a jerk, aren’t you?” Kris says, smiling.

“Not in the least,” Adam says. He steps up until he’s close enough to touch, close enough to slide his palms around and up Kris’ back, warm even through the fabric. “I’m actually a very, very nice man. You can ask anyone.”

“I don’t believe that,” Kris says. He lets his hand curl over Adam’s hip, feeling the studs of his ridiculous belt nudge his palm. “I don’t believe that at all. You’re a bully; I know the signs.”

“Sticks and stones, baby,” Adam says. “Let’s see what we can do to change your...hmm, actually let’s start a little lower.” And he slides to his knees, easy as that.

****

+x+x+x+

Kris's first thought upon waking is that he forgot to brush his teeth, which is why his mouth is funky with sweat and chocolate. Also, he totally forgot to shower, because he’s sticky all over—oh.

Kris’ second major thought is that he’s alone in the apartment.

His third is the box.

The bakery box sits primly on his cardboard table, a junk mail flyer tucked under it. Kris reads the numbers written in the blank edge, and smiles at the bold lines under CUSTOMER SERVICE GUARANTEED.

He picks up the box and goes across the hall.

“On a scale of one to dead,” he asks when the door opens, “how far should I stay from the body to avoid being completely disgusted?”

“He’s awake,” Brady says. “That’s going to be the miracle of the day. Just, um, don’t mention soup. We’ve had terrible luck with soup.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Living room, couch. Poke the blankets with a stick until something crawls out.”

Realistically the apartment is nearly the same size as Kris’, but in terms of actual livability it may as well be another planet, mostly because it actually looks like people are living in it. Kris is self-aware enough to admit that his apartment lacks some dynamism. That, and chairs.

Brad is camped out on the couch as promised. He seems significantly less green than the last time Kris saw him, which is not so much proof of him taking care of himself as it is a testament to the wisdom of marrying an EMT.

“The soup was a lie,” Brad says. His glare is bloodless, and he cuddles his orange juice protectively. “If you’ve come to yell at me about last night, get the hell out. I promised nothing.”

“I’m not quite sure what you’re talking about, but I’m going to assume it’s a symptom. Either way, I brought you treats for when you’re better.” He holds up the bakery box and shakes it gently. “Call it a thank you for last night’s cavalry.”

“You’re a horrible tease,” Brad says, but he takes the box to ruffle through the leftover macaroons. There are plenty of them; Adam ordered generously.

“Seriously, though, you should calm down. There’s nothing to worry about; your boy was awesome,” Kris says. “How do you two know each other, anyway?”

“What?” Brad says.

“Just asking,” Kris says. “Seriously, he was pretty good. I mean, a little rough around the edges, sure, but he could knock that off in a week, tops. Cass would be crazy not to hire him on.”

“Kris,” Brad says. “What in the world are you talking about? Are you mocking me? Because I’m a very sick, lovely young man and you should stop or baby Jesus won't leave anything under your pine tree.”

“Your Sunday schooling is a revelation.” Kris grins. “But, come on, I'm serious about your guy. He was awesome.”

“He was in Tampa.”

“...what?”

“Tampa.” Brad wiggles unhappily in his cocoon of blankets; Kris tugs him upright, rescuing the orange juice. It's a couple of good, long swallows before Brad manages, “Lousy fuck was in Tampa doing a “photo shoot” which, if there is justice on Earth, will be mocked on RedTube. Bitch owed me.”

“Okay,” Kris tries. “Okay. That's—disturbing, but not the point. Because I sent someone out on stage last night.”

Brad perks up slightly. “Someone awesome?”

Someone amazing. Someone who moved like good whiskey going down. Someone who started out hesitant, almost shy, and then grinned and went for it. Like a fuse, like a firework chorus, like the wet dream finish line.

Like someone Kris slept with.

Goddamn shellfish.

“What?” Brad says.

“What?” Kris says.

“Did you just say you— Holy mother of fucking bareback, Kris, did you sleep with someone you accidentally hired as a stripper?”

“No!” Well. “Maybe? I didn’t actually hire him. Nobody hired him, he didn’t accept any money; he gave his tips to Cass.” The thought brews fresh horror. “Oh, _hell_ , he talked to Cass. Cass, who is going to kill me. Brad, I sent this guy out and nobody knows who he is. What if he's another tabloid bloodhound like the last month? Forget Cass, Simon will crucify me.”

“I think he's into lion pits now. Eco-friendly.” Carefully, Brad settles the box in his lap. “All right, don't panic. You’re saying this guy didn't suck. Nobody knows who he is means nobody knows he shouldn't have been there. Cass is going to be too busy PTSD-ing about last night to ever remember what happened, meaning he won't tell Simon, meaning Simon won't know, meaning your skinny ass stays intact. Everybody wins.” Brad raises a pink macaroon in toast. “And you finally got laid, which as far as I’m concerned makes the whole risk worth it. I thought we’d have to cancel your subscription to dick at the rate you were going.”

“You’re a class act, ma’am,” Kris says. Brad flicks crumbs at him, which suddenly brings to mind the plastic lights of the bakery, the smell of sugar, Adam’s hands— Jesus.

“Honey, are you okay?” Brad says. “You look ground up. Wasn’t there anybody left alive to help out last night?”

“Not so much,” Kris says. “Matt and I were the only ones on bar for the whole night, and Cass had everyone else running between stage and playing waiter. I don’t think they would’ve managed a break for anyone if Adam hadn’t been there to help balance things out.”

Brad chokes on passion fruit paste.

“Cheeks?” Brady calls from the kitchen.

“Still alive!” Kris shouts back. He rubs Brad’s back until the worst of the coughs subside enough to be recognized as laughter.

"Adam?" Brad gasps. "Adam Lambert?"

"Possibly?" Kris says. "We, um, didn't get around to surnames. I guess it could be someone else."

"Oh, no," Brad says. His face is doing something complicated, not unlike a happy seizure. "No, it couldn't be. It really, really couldn't. You couldn't be making nice-nice with anybody other than Adam Lambert, because it is your fate to be ridiculous, Kristopher."

Kris frowns. "What?" And then "what?” again when Brad sprawls on the couch, rolling in amusement like a puss in catnip. He's laughing out loud now, shaking from ears to toe with it.

"Adam Lambert! You offered a job—stripping!—to Adam Lambert!"

"I just thought he could maybe use the money," Kris starts, which only sets Brad off harder. He's _quaking_ , and Kris isn't sure whether to shake him or fetch smelling salts.

"What?" he tries and tries again until Brad finally tells him.

****

+x+x+x+

****

+x+x+x+

Johnny slaps the bar top. "You’ve got a special request: high importance and no explanation."

"Explain what?" Kris sets down his tray, passing over empty glasses. "From who?”

“You tell me.” Brad slides a flat piece of stiff paper across to him.

It’s a postcard: white, red, and yellow. A horizontal block of white above a slightly smaller one of red on a field of rummy yellow. Even printed, the painting has texture; the color is frayed at some edges, showing where the brushstrokes must have scraped drily rather than glided. The feathery effect makes Kris think of halos, veils, coronas. In some places the paint looks deliberately faded, and in others it’s deep as a stain. Kris runs his finger over the text at the bottom: _Mark Rothko, No. 13 (White, Red, on Yellow), 1958_.

“Any ideas on how to translate this?” Johnny asks.

“Yeah,” Kris says. “I’ve got a couple ideas.”

He layers bourbon, cherry liqueur, and Campari in a squat glass, each fold of color just blending into the one below, the Campari floating on top.

****

+x+x+x+

The VIP lounge is a different breed entirely from _Idol’s_ cushy private booths. As a rule nobody bothers with the VIP nests unless they're splurging on a party. A single drink does not signify a party. It also has a latex curtain that's the height of class, but is getting cheerfully used to this sort of thing.

Adam is stretched out against the couch back, one ankle propped on his knee, a smile on his face. He looks like the cat who knows where all the canaries are. Kris puts the drink neatly on the little table in front of him.

"On the house," he says. "Since you never actually got paid for the night."

The smile returned is everything Kris remembers: bold, careless, a little risky.

"In that case, let me go first," Adam says. "I'm sorry. I was never out to lie to you about anything."

“Well, it’s a start,” Kris says. “Keep going. I'll nod when we reach the point where I don't feel like a moron."

"Now that's not entirely fair," Adam says reproachfully. "I never actually lied about...whatever it is Brad told you."

"You're kind of failing to erase suspicions, you know?" Kris says. "Brad said you used to date."

"Very enthusiastically, yes. It was long before he met Brady, though."

"Funny how he never mentions you," Kris says.

"Brady?" Adam asks innocently, and grins at Kris' frown. "That's adorable, please stop before I embarrass myself beyond stalking you in a strip club." Kris frowns harder just to make a point. "What, too much?" He picks up the glass and gestures idly with it. "Brad is a good guy; he understands about discretion."

Kris looks at the leather jacket, the metal cuff, the glitter liner with open doubt. "Discretion."

"On certain matters only. In general I'm an open book: ask me anything."

"How long did you two date?" Kris asks, even though he probably shouldn't, he really shouldn't. He knows better.

"We were together for two years, half of that not particularly serious and the rest very serious indeed. We broke up several times at varying volume, the last time being nearly three years ago, which seemed to stick. Brad met Brady, I've been out of town on work for the past couple of months, Adam Mitchel Lambert, Aquarius, non-smoker, would you like to have dinner?"

"What?" Kris says. "I— No. No, thank you."

"Alright," Adam says easily. "Would you like to have lunch?"

"It's eleven o’clock," Kris says.

"Great. Say yes and I promise to find proper brunch food within the hour. What are your views on tomato butter?" Adam pats the couch. "And would you please sit down? I'm getting increasingly paranoid about you running out to call the police on me."

"Do you have that worry often?" Kris says, sitting.

"I'm only returning the favor," Adam says with a slow, warm grin that refreshes a lot of memories in Kris' blood. Specifically the quart that's flowing decidedly south.

"That wasn't— Last time, that wasn't a favor. It was..." Kris sighs and rubs a hand over his face. "I'm sorry about that. It's not the sort of thing I usually do."

"Pick up strippers?"

"I don't date customers. Or coworkers," Kris says. And then, because if he's going there, he's going for broke, "Actually, I don't date."

“Ah. Well.” Adam picks up his glass. He studies the layered liqueur for a moment then takes a sip. "This is very good."

"Thank you," Kris says. He pauses, getting up. "I looked you up on Wikipedia." Kris can't help laughing a little. "You're on Wikipedia. _New York Times_ ran a profile on you last month. There are some YouTube clips, too. You were on CNN."

"Only because Jon Stewart won't return my calls," Adam says. Which is just grossly unfair, because does he have to be funny, too?

Adam tilts his head, lips pursed.

"So."

"So," Kris agrees.

Adam's brow arches, waiting.

"So," Kris says patiently. "You're kind of a billionaire. For real."

"Yep."

"Like, really for real."

"'Fraid so, yeah. Would it help if I said I'm only in it for the money, though?" Adam says with flagrant, woeful, endearingly plastic sincerity. "I can reimburse you for the drink."

"Nah," Kris says. "There’s a recession, I get it."

"You honestly didn't know," Adam says after a moment in a way that's not at all a question. He sounds nearly shy. A previously unknown muscle in Kris' gut takes the opportunity to wobble.

"Not a clue," Kris says. "Maybe you could've mentioned that when I was worried about you not being able to pay the house fee."

"Would you have covered me?" Adam asks curiously, and Kris' face immediately heats. "My God, you would. That's adorable."

"I thought you needed help! I was being nice."

"You were," Adam says. "You are the nicest boy I've met in a very, very long time, Kris Allen. Which is exactly why I'd love to take you to dinner, or lunch, or anything else you might be interested in. Name it."

"No, really," Kris says. "Thank you, but no."

"Kris, I really am sorry," Adam says. "Scout's honor, I wasn't trying to play you. Believe it or not, the subject's tricky to bring up in conversation. Sex certainly doesn't make it easier."

"What, people go for the pants the minute they know who you are?" Kris asks.

"It makes for some enthusiastic business meetings."

Kris really can't help it this time: he laughs. A good, proper laugh rolling up warm from belly to mouth. He can't even properly explain why he does it except because, come on, what is this guy?

Adam's smile is still present when he's done, but also resigned. "You're not going to say yes to dinner this time, are you?"

"Sorry," Kris shakes his head. The laughter's left a good taste, but reality is a stronger seasoning. "Honestly, you're kind of awesome, but...last night wasn't the norm for me."

"Thank you," Adam says.

"That's not what I meant," Kris says.

Adam pulls a sad face. "Ouch."

"I didn't meant that either," Kris says. "Okay, you know what? I'm working right now."

"I'm a customer."

"I have the right to throw you out."

"You think? I knew Cass before I knew Brad."

"That's...seriously unfair," Kris says.

"Tell me about it," Adam says solemnly. "In fact, let’s do so over sushi. Do you like sushi?"

"I'm leaving now," Kris says.

"Oysters? Pasta? Tuna burgers?"

"Leaving," Kris repeats.

"What if I want another drink?"

"You have a— Hey!" Two seconds too late, Kris scrambles forward to pound Adam's back, while the man coughs and sputters past three layers.

"No evidence," Adam rasps. "The perfect crime. What did I just choke on?"

"Orange slices," Kris says.

"That's nice," Adam says, wiping his mouth. "I'd like another please."

"Not without a certified CPR practitioner in the room," Kris says. "Are you nuts?"

"Depends, is that a turn on?"

"No!"

"Then I'm as sane as a bank loan," Adam says. "Take a chance, Allen. Dare lightning to strike twice."

"Are you comparing yourself to a natural disaster?" Kris says. His hand is still on Adam's back. Damn it. "If you want another drink, come to the bar. Don't sic my own boss on me; that's cheating."

"Alright," Adam says promptly.

"Just a drink," Kris warns.

"Naturally," Adam says.

"Okay, then." At the door, Kris pauses to glance back. How did he ever miss it the first time around, the impression Adam makes? How he braces his elbows on the dark, smooth wood. How the tone of his posture doesn't match the simple cotton of his shirt. How his fingertips tap the square glass rim. How his eyes wait.

"Let me know when you want that second drink," Kris says and finally leaves.

****

+x+x+x+

“Your ex is here,” Kris says.

Brad doesn’t look away from the mirror, sliding eye liner around his eye. “That’s nice. Which one, and did he bring a friend? More importantly, is he drunk and waving money?”

“Ask him to cash in his tips from last time,” Kris says.

“Wait—Adam?” Brad puts down the liner. “Adam is here? Right now? You actually grew some man-parts and invited him?”

“I didn’t,” Kris says. He swats Brad’s hip automatically, ignoring the grin. “He’s squatting in the VIP lounge for a hundred bucks an hour.”

“Nonsense,” Brad says. “If it’s Adam, Cass is charging double.” He lifts his brows. “Did you at least give him a soda or something?”

“I made him a drink,” Kris says, slightly defensive. “It’s cool, actually. I made him this—what? What am I getting that face for? _What_?”

****

+x+x+x+

Kris looks at the twenty in his hand with an address scribbled over President Jackson's face. Fat lot it will do him, since there are no cabs in sight.

"I don’t deserve this," he says.

"I think someone stole my wallet," Adam informs the world and drops.

****

+x+x+x+

"Adam. Adam? _Adam_." Kris braces against the elevator door. At this point the doorman is blatantly ignoring him. Considering the place has marble floors and some kind of ridiculous wall fountain tinkling serenely down sheets of colored glass, a little extra help with his cargo wouldn't be amiss. But Kris' luck is an evil hag.

He's going to scalp Brad. Twice.

"Adam," Kris tries again. "Man, come on, I need to know where you actually live. Okay? Wakey wakey, time to talk-y."

The dead weight across his aching shoulder twitches sluggishly. "...whazuh?"

"Your apartment," Kris repeats. "I need to know your apartment."

Blue eyes blink stubbornly through a fog of mezcal and passion fruit. "Kris?"

"Yes. Kris. Hello, nice to see you. Where is your apartment?"

"I like the top," Adam says and gilds the moment by throwing up spectacularly on Kris' left foot.

****

+x+x+x+

It takes three tries and an uncomfortable confirmation of the snugness of Adam's jeans to find the penthouse keys. Kris readjusts his grip on the swaying man and, huffing, hauls them both across the doorstep with relief.

Only to be confronted with the smashing reminder that, yes, the zombie mess of nausea and glitter sweating on Kris' shoulder is, in fact, a Big Deal.

It wasn't that he was completely unprepared for the fact of Adam's habitat; Kris had expected something nice, something luxurious. A leather-topped table or custom-cut crystal, or maybe some velvety upholstery. But it's one thing to foresee pricey sparkles and good china; it's something else entirely to get smacked in the face—figuratively, but Kris watches his step—with a live panorama of LA and low-hanging chandelier lamps. Fresh flowers are lushly arranged in tall vases. If the ceiling isn't quite a sixteen-footer, it's nonetheless ample enough to host its own constellation; tiny lights beam kindly down onto the dappled floors and jade-and-amber carpeting. A Japanese kimono is suspended on metal rods against a bolt of satin on the wall.

Kris really, _really_ hates Brad.

****

+x+x+x+

Adam's bedroom is very purple, and Kris is going to pointedly ignore that.

Since getting Adam's jeans off requires either a crowbar or a marriage license, Kris settles for loosening the studded belt and undoing enough shirt buttons to prevent choking. Adam barely twitches during the manhandling, which…well, Kris doesn't know what it means. He'd taken Adam for a guy who could hold his booze, but then he'd never encountered Adam out in the Real World. Whatever real means in LA, anyway.

He wets a plush hand-towel in the giant milk-and-amber bathroom and dabs the worst of the makeup off Adam's flushed face. Freckles pop up in the towel's wake: cute. Adam probably hates them; he seems the type.

Kris isn't.

****

+x+x+x+

Adam wakes up twice during the night. The first time, Kris just manages to get a glass of water and two Advil into the guy before he rolls over and back into a coma. Kris goes back to paging through the glossy heap of _National Geographic’s_ on the coffee table.

The second time, Adam's face is wet and green, and Kris salutes himself for remembering to drag the bronze wastebasket next to the bed. He keeps his hand sure and casual on Adam's clammy back while he unloads the night's celebrated cocktail in a foul, sporadic gush. Afterward, Kris forces another glass of water down Adam's throat and wipes down the sweaty face and neck with a fresh towel. Adam mumbles something, a name (Daniel? Danny? Danielle?). Kris impatiently smoothes limp bangs away from a slack face and goes back to photogenic horror stories about dying tigers.

****

+x+x+x+

 _...ye merry, gentlemen, let nothing you dismay._

He's forgotten his hat again. But there's no time to go searching for it, he's late already. So late. He always leaves things until the last minute. Katy will laugh at him. Cale, too. He loves them. He was going to wait for them, but. He's late.

The hallway smells like cigarettes, like sweat, like the taxi seat. The driver smiles. His Yankee cap is ragged, he turns up the radio. Kris laughs. Opens the window, still laughing.

_...ye merry, gentlemen, let nothing you dismay._

The snow is warm, artificial. Gritty. Confetti and dirt, swept up from the stage like always, to be dumped down like rain again the next night, and the next, and the next. It fills his lap like flowers. Like ice cream. He tries to brush it off, doesn't want to stain the pants. At the party, Katy will sigh at him. He needs to keep clean.

_...ye merry, gentlemen, Kris, let nothing you dismay._

His pant leg is wet. It sticks to his thigh, uncomfortable. The driver isn't talking. His leg is cold. He brushes off the snow, confetti.

_...ye merry, gentlemen, Kris, let nothing you dismay, Kris._

His hand is red.

"Kris?"

Kris wakes up to the taste of plastic snow, pulse hammering, and Adam's hand on his shoulder.

"Hey, it's okay, it's okay. Sorry, I didn't—" The hand vanishes, a cold spot blooming in its wake. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"It's fine," Kris says automatically. He coughs to shake the croak out of his throat. "I was just. Weird dream, you know."

"Reality tastes bad enough at the moment," Adam grimaces. "Any idea how many rats threw up in my throat?"

"Yeah, about that." Kris scoots up, feeling his body protest. Mohair or not, that sort of bending doesn't do anybody's back any favors. "You owe me a pair of socks."

Adam groans. "Oh, God. I didn't. Tell me I didn't."

Kris wiggles his bare toes in answer. Adam groans double as he drags a palm down his face. His completely clean face. Along with the damp hair and spotless t-shirt, he looks a thousand miles away from last night's glittering mess.

"Don't worry about it," Kris says. He swings his feet down, wincing slightly at the sore bite in his leg. It happens rarely, but always when he forgets and sleeps where he shouldn't. He'll have to do a bit of smart stretching later.

"Are you okay? I didn't— Oh crap, please tell me you didn't have to carry me the whole way or something." Adam makes an abrupt move toward him. Kris stiffens automatically.

"It's fine," he says. It comes out wrong: too curt, too fast. Kris stands up determinedly, ignoring the expected twinge. He's dealt with worse. Hell, he's danced through worse.

Adam's eyes flicker as if looking for a way to start a sentence, possibly a question. Kris' stomach tightens in unhappy anticipation. If Adam asks, Kris will dodge. Or lie. He doesn't want to—it's surprisingly how much he doesn't want to—but he will. He'd have to.

Adam asks, "Coffee?"

Kris' lungs unclench. "Lead the way."

****

+x+x+x+

"I've been trying to buy a house for three years," Adam tells him.

Kris peers over his slice of whole wheat and marmalade, making a sympathetic noise of curiosity.

"No, seriously," Adam says. "I mean, I'm from _here_ more than I am from anywhere else, right, but our biggest office is in New York. Which is kind of ridiculous, but it's where everything got founded, so whatever. Anyway. The point is LA's always been more of a rest stop—"

Kris snorts. He's _smelled_ New York.

"—shut up, you know what I meant. LA's where I _want_ to be at but never actually manage to stay. Then we expanded our branch here, and I said, fuck that, let's get grounded. I'm registered to vote here." He grimaces, waving his mug. "Except apparently the power to determine the state and country's political direction is a cakewalk compared to owning a living room."

"It's gotta be tough," Kris says. "Surviving on bread crusts and recycled platinum. Cuddling secondhand diamonds."

Adam laughs, then presses his fingers to his temple. "Shit, don't be funny; my brain's leaking. Yeah, apartment living is fun. But it's basically playing house for adults. You get to rampage through design schemes, bring in whatever crazy stuff you want, hang silver curtains. Anything goes, right, because you know it's a temporary deal. But I'm not a renter at heart; I need ownership."

Kris passes a wedge of toast. "Is it really that big a pain in the butt?"

" _Meh_." Adam takes a bite, chewing mournfully. Then he sweeps his thumb through a stray dab of marmalade on Kris' plate and licks thoughtfully, losing any chance at pathos. "True story: I'm picky as hell. This is going to be a _home_ , not a glorified hotel squat or a live-in magazine spread."

"The Duchamp scenario," Kris says. Adam blinks at him, head tilted. Kris has crumbled his leftover crust. "Marcel Duchamp. The artist? Someone I know saw his stuff in the MOMA, and there was this piece, the valise-something one? It's basically a series of tiny boxes he made to carry around. Inside are reproductions of his own work. Like a pop-up autobiography, I guess, or a private portable gallery. She said it kind of scared her the first time she saw it, the idea of it. The notion of keeping everything important completely portable."

"Some people would call that an admirable achievement," Adam, says but he doesn't sound argumentative. "Independence is attractive."

"I guess. But I think what got to her was the idea of reaching a point where you have nothing outside yourself to rely on. It was, I don't know." Kris shrugs. "Your life shouldn't be a lightweight accessory."

"She sounds like a very smart girl," Adam nods.

Kris shrugs and sweeps the crumbs into his palm, heading for the sink. "One of the best I've ever known."

"Ah. Does she have a newsletter? I'm always willing to sign up for a little extracurricular wisdom."

"I wouldn't know; we haven't talked in a while." Kris brushes the crumbs into the sink, rinsing his hands.

"Ah," Adam says again and leaves it at that. Then, “They make you cry.”

Kris pauses. “What?”

“That’s the thing about Rothko’s that I was trying to remember,” Adam says. “People supposedly cry when they see them, and they don’t know why.”

****

+x+x+x+

"Have dinner with me."

Kris looks up, thumb still tucked by a naked heel, shoehorning it into his sneakers. "This sounds familiar."

"You're imagining things." Leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, Adam is relaxed and sleepy, well-rumpled as a favorite cat.

Kris props himself with one knee on the cold floor, laces between his fingers. Adam is glaringly tall from this angle. “You're totally used to getting your own way, aren't you?”

“Not at all,” Adam assures him. “People fight with me about the tiniest things. Sometimes it goes on for ages. Luckily, I'm charmingly persistent.”

“Lucky for whom?” Kris asks. He presses to keep the tone stern.

Adam's smile is innocent as a white lamb frolicking in a field of baby rainbows. “Usually it's highly gratifying for all parties involved.”

“What the hell do you _do_?” Kris asks because he never did get around to asking Brad.

In response, Adam takes two assured steps forward. His feet are bare, stone pale, tips neatly polished with ocean blue. He stands close enough for Kris to pick up a spicy note in his shampoo.

“I'll tell you,” he says, “over dinner.” He leans back, deceptively casual if not for the eyes. "Come on, we can get anything you want. Go crazy. You know there's a dive in town that serves a cognac that's survived two World Wars? It comes with yohimbe bark." He smiles. "It’s an African aphrodisiac."

"I think I'll stick to fries and pizza," Kris says. "Simple minds, simple tastes, you know?"

Kris stands up; Adam steps closer. The spicy scent is more pronounced, amplified by the warmth of skin.

"Just tell me what you want," Adam says softly. "Just…there must be something." Adam's fingers are tense, like he wants to reach out, to touch. He says, "You can ask for anything."

"Warm toes," Kris says.

****

+x+x+x+

The elevator is upholstered in lush, warm mahogany and oak-gold. There's some kind of glazed glass slats in the walls: pretty. Miraculously, there's no watery easy listening or pallid jazz attempting to soothe the air.

Kris watches the play of light and dark, the indistinct blur where his reflection would be, all the way down.

****

+x+x+x+

The gift box is delivered half an hour before they're due to open. It's not heart shaped or Valentine red, but the ribbon is shiny, and the card attached is pointedly gold edged. Kris goes over before the courier even starts reading the addressee. Somehow he's got a strong guess about this one.

"Presents!" Johnny whoops, darting away with the box while Kris is still signing the UPS pad.

Brad looks smug for all of the five seconds it takes for the ribbon to come undone. Then he…gapes.

It's kind of awesome.

Kris laughs until he has to lean against the bar for support, staying there until Brad swats him with a bar towel. For a moment, life is beautifully ridiculous. It won't last, of course—it never does. It can't.

But he's keeping the socks.

**X+x+x+x+X**


	2. Chapter 2

**X+x+x+x+X**

_"A weak first step transmits nothing."_ **~Mai Kishikawa**

Kris is completely unsurprised when his rent check bounces.

So very, very unsurprised. Kris isn't bad with money; he's hopeless. A large part of this is, he suspects, intimately linked with the fact that he's never really had much money or paid attention to any of the necessary details. (He remembers the dancers’ luckless union meetings, and he remembers how most of them only showed up for the brownies. Himself included.) Before, a paycheck was mostly a limp coupon for a negligent apartment, sneakers and sweatshirts, the rare, illicit splurge. The idea of having savings was—is—alien.

Kris’ life used to be pretty bizarre; now it's just sort of pathetic.

"This is sort of pathetic," Brad says. "How can you be this underfunded? You don't drink—seriously, that’s so weird—you don't gamble, you don't collect hideous, overpriced porcelain cat statues. You don't have a credit card. Who doesn't have a credit card?" Before Kris can avoid answering, Brad presses on. "You're a financial mutant. Which sucks horse balls because Brady’s med school fees are crippling, while I personally owe Visa, like, half a kidney," he adds. He doesn't sound particularly bothered by the knowledge.

"I wasn't asking to borrow," Kris starts.

Brad sighs like a Hollywood drama. "I know, because you're ridiculous. I'm guessing that's also why you won't ask Cassidy for a pay advance." Kris nods; Brad exhales. "Okay. Super. So to sum things up: you need to excavate a couple hundred in three days, but refuse to be sane or reasonable about doing it."

"I'm not irrational," Kris says. He gets up to fetch one of the organic sodas that Brad loves and Kris won't understand, ever. "It's just…I like to earn what I get."

"That attitude and a pair of ass-less chaps would solve all our problems, except— Oh quit glaring." Brad makes grabby hands for the neon bubbly. He takes a noisy, loving gulp. Rolls it in his mouth. Swallows. Looks shifty. "I...might have a solution. Maybe. No promises."

Kris' eyebrows rise automatically.

"Shut _up_ ," Brad tells him. "But before that, what are you doing tomorrow night?"

****

+x+x+x+

Kris used to be good at parties.

Which is to say that Kris used to be good at showing up clean and careless, wearing someone's gift of an overpriced shirt with his hair still damp, smelling of Katy's lilac soap or Cale's boozy aftershave. He'd flit in with the rest of the company, smiling through brief bursts of conversation that recycled the same questions. He laughed. He idled. He was sincere with each new face and forgot them entirely once the bell tolled, the men turned back to mice and everyone herded back into obscurity. It had been a heady, blinding exercise.

But that was then.

The club is gorgeous and impossible: a glamorized ice cavern, a landscape of glacial circuits of interaction and transparent glass. Kris passes through a blue velvet curtain hanging on a curved wall to the dance floor beyond it, where two bars with long counters run along either side. Three enormous baroque lamps hang down like stalactites, and tall standing vases are aglow to provide extra light; the light swims on all the white surfaces, changing the room’s colors with every pulse. Kris peeks into the bathroom.I It's clad in marble, sea green, angled mirrors, and herbaceous soaps in tin boxes.

The past year in LA has inoculated Kris against much of the glitter and fireworks, but it hasn't quite prepared him for this: SUVs and silky limousines releasing dozens of pretty bodies into the dazzling wild, an army of figure-enhancing slits arm in arm with photogenic stubble. Accents perfume the air.

At the bar, Kris is adopted by a pair of alchemists, each inexplicably referring to the other as "Ro". One is a cocktail of rocket fuel and lip gloss in leather shorts and a tuxedo blazer. She's from Singapore or Australia or, possibly, Narnia. Somewhere between explaining which arctic shelf behind them holds the tequila and showing off the laminated cutting board, she gleefully grills Kris on the architecture of a Blood and Sand, (scotch, sweet vermouth, cherry brandy, and OJ) and is the sort of drinker who knows that the drink was named after a Rudolph Valentino flick. She makes him sip the brandy, relentless until he agrees that yes, Cherry Marnier _is_ better than Cherry Heering and yes, yes, he promises to break thumbs if anyone adds ice. They bond over stolen snacks: smoky edamame, pumpkin seeds spiked with paprika and cayenne pepper, _gougère_ ping-pongs of Gruyère and nutmeg, mango slices dipped into chili-sugar-salt gunpowder.

The other woman is precise as a sequin with mesmerizing hands capable of assembling four drinks at once and still hand out a slap to anyone who’s asking for it. Her short, short dress has a hem of feathers. Kris is reminded of Stravinsky's _Firebird_ : fast, sensational, a lively heart attack. He's not surprised to learn she's co-owner of the company masterminding the party.

"It was completely last minute, you know?" she says. "We got the call yesterday, and normally I'd slam the phone down and to hell with it. Miracles are one thing, but liquoring up this many glitterati without a chance to check if there are enough glasses? Forget it."

Kris has spent the major portion of his life at the whims of a schedule that changed usually before the ink had a chance to dry. "Right."

She laughs and taps his mouth. "Open."

Instinctively (well-taught to the last tendon), he does. Blackcurrant and midnight chocolate die like stars on his tongue. Ro laughs again and wipes the corner of his mouth with her thumb. Despite the dazzle, she's got a kindly touch.

"Amazing, right?" Kris nods, dutifully amazed. "They’re calling them tarot truffles. They’re 100% custom made for our host, everything from the candy to the wrapper." She pinches either edge of the purple foil, stretching; the wrinkles make a tiny mosaic of the design stamped on the paper. It looks vaguely Egyptian, kind of cool. Ro crumples the picture into a ball before Kris can make out specifics. She tucks it into his shirt pocket.

"Why the rush, then?" Kris asks. "I mean, you guys didn't even have time to get enough bartenders. What's the big occasion?"

"We didn’t need any more bartenders—no offense." She pours twelve-year scotch smoothly as a painter layering the next streak. "But there was some kind of misunderstanding in the wires; suddenly the whole thing had to be tonight and staff roster was completely bungled. I didn't feel like fighting the customer after they started mentioning bonus fees." Her smile is professionally arch. "Money talks, baby boy."

From the looks of it—the heavyweight bar, the 24-karat throng, a light show Spielberg would balk at—the money behind this party didn’t talk; it _hollered_.

"Whose money," Kris starts to ask, but a hand winking with rings gestures, and Ro glides off to appease.

"It's obscene," says one of Kris' gin-and-tonics an hour later. The cheekbones and accent are resolutely Slavic, and the TAG Heuer ticking on his wrist matches the crowd. Kris' lukewarm Russian has apparently endeared him to the man. Then again, the friendliness could be inspired by Brad's borrowed shirt.

"People don't live like this," the tepid Dostoevsky insists. "Nobody lives like this. This isn't life. It's pageantry. He's indecent, really, to make people come and sit through this. Beautiful shirts, of course, but obscene. Did you know that you have wonderful arms?"

"Thank you," Kris says, and tops off the gin.

It’s not the first reference Kris hears regarding the mysterious force behind the circus, and it’s not the last. Human nature dictates that it doesn’t matter whether the watering hole is a water cooler, a sputtering coffee machine, or a Bordeaux and whiskey oasis; there’ll be gossip. Kris gets a dose with every drink he builds.

"—had to cancel the reservation, naturally, but there was no saving it. What place is going to let you reschedule with less than half-a-day's notice? It’ll take a month to get that table back, and we’ll be billing him for the meal, the crazy bastard. I swear, who does he think he—"

Scotch and sweet vermouth, the unavoidable dash of bitters. Shake for ten to fifteen seconds before straining into a chilled glass. Garnish with the maraschino cherry, or lemon peel, or an olive.

"—and I’m freakin’ out thinking that I’m, like, hallucinating and the party already happened. Total panic attack in progress. I’m seriously halfway to calling Dr. Marvin for an emergency intervention when Phyllis calls and is, like, no, bitch, it _did_ get moved, put down the Valium. Then I ask what the fuck she's doing back in the States—"

Peaches and champagne. A splash of schnapps for vibrancy.

"—thought Myers was going to show up. But can you blame him for hiding? Poor bastard got practically decapitated in the quarter meeting and then finds out his backers had already jumped shipped. I actually think I saw a couple of them by the speakers—you know, the Copley pair? Who the hell knows when he found the time to seduce them atop of closing the Weirmer merger, but Myers obviously didn’t have a clue. I’m telling you, there’s ruthless and there’s ruthless. The man has a heart of—"

A Collins glass of ice, two-thirds full. Vodka. Add orange juice, but leave room for some Galliano to float on top.

"—shows up at the bankruptcy auction and grabs Wilkins by the tie and just shoves him against the wall in front of the whole room. Tells him, ‘When I say step right, you step right. When I say step left, you step left. Do you understand that dance?’ The moron looked ready to piss himself right there and then. I’m telling you, they’re going to be begging for a settlement by next quarter or—"

Fresh lime juice and vodka, triple sec, and an ounce of simple syrup to be kind. Shake— _one Mississippi, two Mississippi, twenty Mississippi_ —to melt the ice. A highball glass for a single hit or into four shots of courage, gussy up with a wedge of lime.

"—head-to-toe Gucci at four AM, and the bank didn’t even blink—"

"—got a text that it was tonight instead and nearly did a one-eighty right in the middle of the lane—"

"—wearing Brad’s shirt?"

He startles, Captain Morgan and lime juice sloshing a little out of the shot glass. "What, I—here you go, ma’am, enjoy—what are you doing here?"

Adam raises his inky eyebrows. "And hello to you, too." 

"Hi," Kris says. "I mean, hello."

"Hello," Adam smiles. He crosses his arms on the bar, leaning forward and looking so _in place_ that it’s ridiculous. There’s nothing of the careless stranger who danced at Idol; in his place is reptilian perfection, poreless and streamlined from hair to heel.

Kris doesn't recognize the half-full tumbler in his hand, and frowns at it immediately.

"Need me to top that off?" Kris asks, nodding toward the glass. "Or, hey, here’s a better idea: how about you hand it over and I throw it away?"

"Oh, ye of little faith and problematically accurate memory," Adam says. He tips the glass in Kris’ direction. Kris reaches out to snag the glass from Adam's ringed hand for a sip. He feels his face ripple in surprise. "Apple juice?"

"See, I can be a good boy," Adam says. "Besides, I could use the vitamins. These things bleed me out."

Laughing—seriously, this guy—Kris gives back the juice. Adam salutes him and drains his nonalcoholic glass in one long throw, white throat tilted dramatically back. Kris helplessly thinks of statues, cream and marble, the long stretch of a perfect turn. Finished, Adam clinks the empty glass down on the bar.

"So," he says, "are you having fun, baby?"

"I’m working," Kris says pointedly.

"And I’m a customer!" Adam exclaims. He wags a finger—blue nails, pretty—in Kris’ direction. "And you’re being mean to me again. I really don’t know why you refuse to take me seriously as a customer, Kris."

"It’s an open bar." Kris pushes himself, palms flat on the bar, to look down far enough to see the tops of Adam’s boots and everything leading to them. "And your pants don’t have pockets. You’re not a customer."

"Kristopher, are you doubting the size of my…" Adam leans in, eyes laughing and mouth sly, "…tip?"

Kris bites down hard enough for his back teeth to click. He will not smile; that would encourage chaos. "You want another juice box or what? If you’d like, I can probably find some fruit roll ups."

"I used to love those things," Adam says sincerely. "I would just stick them on anywhere and go to town, God."

"That sounds," Kris considers the options and settles for, "sticky."

"Yeah," Adam sighs happily. "Speaking of which, there’s an amazing fruit bar four blocks down. They do this loquat chutney, it’s incredible. When are you—"

"Working," Kris reminds him.

"That’s all you say to me anymore," Adam sighs.

****

+x+x+x+

Adam vanishes into the crowd as supernaturally as he rose out of it. It’s just as well; the night is ramping up and bodies are overheating, mouths running dry. A vodka martini isn’t the best source of electrolytes, but this isn’t the sort of crowd to worry about bad heads the next day.

Ro-in-charge reaches over his shoulder while he’s pouring champagne, waiting for the foam to subside, and drops a sugar cube into the glass.

"Extra bubbles," she says and right on cue, the bubbles amplify. Kris grins, and she laughs. "You’re adorable. Is that a Southern affliction?"

"Ma’am," Kris says, drawing it out.

She rolls her eyes and slaps his shoulder. "Are you trying to suicide by service, stupid? Go take a break."

"I’m fine," Kris says. "I can keep going."

"This isn’t a prison march." She shoves his chest not at all lightly, then picks up one of the ridiculously colored plates from the catering tables and nearly shoves that at him, too. Kris takes it out of her hands in self-defense; life is too short to be mugged by sesame. "Go. Eat, recharge, inhale something other than eau de namedropper for a bit."

Deciding that discretion is the better part of valor, Kris complies. Plus, some of the colognes really do turn septic after a while.

He finds himself sitting on a comfortingly dingy stoop, the noise and action warm on his back but otherwise momentarily suspended from relevancy. Somewhere along the way, a kind soul spared him a cup of drab coffee, and Kris swallows the hot stuff with a numb tongue. It’s been awhile since he’s worked outside of his comfort zone like this. It’s almost refreshing.

The looted plate Ro bullied onto him is a mess of luxury, with an emphasis on mess. There are crispy-thin cigars of pomegranate, walnut, olive, and mint; little pastry shells filled with garlicky shrimp and ricotta; one-bite quiches capped with red caviar; pistachio crackers pebbled with sea salt and dried basil; cheese-laced tarts filled with sweet, pitted olives.

There’s something to be said about eating miniscule quiches in the back alley of a custom-made winter wonderland at two AM. Kris kind of wishes he knew what it was.

"God, this is a weird town."

 _Yeah, that’d do._ Kris twists slightly to watch Adam gracelessly hunker down beside him in his thousand dollar jeans and royal skin. He pokes through Kris’ stolen plate without a twitch of conscience.

"Thief," Kris says.

"Like you have any right to judge," Adam says, stealing a cracker. He’s like a kid, really.

"Snacks are the only perk of serving your snobby ass," Kris says.

"So much anger in such small packaging." Adam shakes his head, snapping the cracker with his hard, white teeth. The cracker snaps apart in his mouth. "Okay, wow. These are fantastic. How was I not aware of that?"

"Why would you be?" Kris says, and Adam looks at him, bright eyes steady but suddenly opaque like a shutter closing, a curtain coming down, and, _oh_.

Oh. Kris is an idiot.

"This is your party," Kris says. He raises the coffee cup and swallows thoughtlessly, singeing his tongue. It hurts, a little.

"You just got it, just now?" Adam laughs. It’s not a mocking laugh; it’s friendly, if teasing, and it’s a nice sound, low and rich. It’s not something anybody would mind hearing.

For all the gold and music in the world, Kris couldn't explain why it makes him as angry as it does.

"I have to go back to work." Kris gets up in an angry push of energy, not using his hands. He nods at the plate. "You can finish that off. Try the quiches; they're magical."

Adam takes another cracker, but doesn't bite. "You're— Okay, obviously you're upset about this. Can I ask why, or will that make things worse?"

The worst part is that he actually sounds sincere.

"Hey, I'm just making sure you get your money's worth," Kris says.

"What the fuck?" Adam says flatly. He stands up, too, not letting go of the plate.

Kris is used to not being the tallest body in the room, but being reminded of Adam's height is suddenly unsettling, like being kicked painlessly in the back of the knee. It doesn't help that Adam seems to have a bit of a loomer in him, a quality clearly well trained to appear on command. And Adam is commanding.

"Don't go," Adam says. "Kris, come on, I've been waiting four hours for a chance to talk with you."

"You've had plenty of chances so far. I've been stuck in one place since the doors opened."

"Pardon me for not wanting an audience," Adam says.

 

"Why not? It's your show, isn't it? This entire display, the stupid glitz, everything. This whole damn set up." Kris wants nothing more than to turn his back and march back inside the hotel, but he'll be damned and burned if he walks away now, letting Adam stare him down.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Adam says. He coughs to clear his throat, the preposterous troll. Like Kris needs a boardroom address. "Look, I was only trying to help you a little. Brad said you were strapped for cash, so."

So, of course, this is what admitting to fault leads to in Kris’ life. He can’t simply be mocked or blamed; he gets pitied. Pitied, which is kinder and, of course, so much more toxic. Pity kills. Kris knows.

In the mixed sheen of streetlight and kitchen spillover, Adam's skin looks artificial. Kris is reminded of stage make up and doesn't like it.

"I don’t need handouts," Kris says.

"What handout? You needed a little extra work, this is a little extra work. Quid pro quo at its capitalistic finest. There’s not enough charity here to constitute a favor."

"Did you move the party to two days earlier just so that I’d be able to fill in?" Kris asks quickly, before he loses his nerve. Out loud, the idea sounds arrogant and flamboyant; the very assumption leaves Kris feeling unpleasantly puffed up. He wouldn't mind hearing Adam laugh at the assumption.

Instead, Adam rolls his lip—there goes that gloss—and meets Kris’ eyes straight on. He’s still holding the stupid plate of snacks. "Yes."

"Shit," Kris says. His shoulders sink, and he tilts back against the hotel wall. He wouldn’t mind smacking his head against it a few times. "Sorry, I didn’t mean— That wasn’t directed at you, exactly."

"Well, that’s a relief," Adam says and coughs again, dry and scratchy. He looks a little scratchy, too, if Kris peers through the mixed light. Adam frowns slightly at the snack plate. "I think there was a little too much pepper in the crackers."

"I don’t think there was any pepper in the crackers," Kris says. Ro of the multicolored bracelets and alien origins had been very specific about the crackers. "They’re supposed to be some kind of weird salt and basil."

"Huh," Adam says. He scratches idly at his open collar, digging underneath the necklaces.

"And pistachio," Kris adds.

Adam paws at his neck again, harder. "Fuck."

****

+x+x+x+

If anybody is allowed to be a violent grump at three AM, it’s a paramedic nurse sleeping off a fourteen hour shift. Luckily, Brady tends to buck stereotypes and only blinks owlishly at them for a moment before going to raid his impressive medicine cabinet.

Kris hovers nervously in the doorway, because it’s not in his upbringing to come into another person’s home without an invitation. Adam, on the other hand, rolls right in and collapses onto a lumpy sofa, too busy clawing his skin off to bother with niceties.

"At least take your shoes off," Kris says.

"Fuck, fuck," Adam says. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ , it’s like being molested by ants."

"I don’t even want to imagine where that reference is coming from," Kris says.

Brady saves the moment by coming back with a lotion bottle and a closed fist. The latter turns out to be holding some generic-looking white pills that Adam is distressingly quick to swallow. Kris tries to remember that he is still technically upset with the man, and as such has no reason to be worrying about his pharmaceutical habits.

"Is that Benadryl?" he asks instead.

"It’s Benadryl’s cooler, medicated cousin," Brady says. He passes over the lotion. To Kris, which, okay. Whatever. "If he’s just itching—"

"And coughing, a little," Kris adds.

Brady nods. "Right. Well, nothing is swelling to the point of asphyxiation; he’s going to be fine in the morning. Put the lotion on whatever part is the itchiest, but otherwise just let him sleep it off." He pauses to stare at Adam. "How did you forget you were allergic to pistachios? Brad said it’s the only thing you’re actually allergic to."

"I eat dumb things when I’m nervous," Adam says. "Also, why are you discussing my food allergies with your husband? That’s suspicious. Does it have anything to do with Brad being in my will?"

"Yes," Brady says. "Now please go away. Cheeks threatens divorce whenever I let him have gets less than six hours a night."

Both Kris and Adam stare at him.

"Of _sleep_ ," Brady says.

That seems as good a time as any to shuffle out the door, trying to look as grateful as possible. Kris thinks it’s more luck than any of them deserve that Brad is doing the late shift at Idol, because it wouldn’t be very grateful to start tearing his head off in front of his too-nice-to-live husband.

Beside him, Adam shuffles tiredly and scratches at his face again; Kris slaps his hand automatically.

"You think the cab is still waiting downstairs?" Adam asks, but without much optimism. Kris doesn’t blame him; he’d seen the cabbie’s expression when he got a clear look at Adam’s rapidly swelling pink face, and it wasn’t generous. Kris had left a regretfully generous handful of his night’s tips to pay for whatever cleaning exorcism the woman would be attempting on the backseat.

Speaking of which. "I can’t believe you forgot your wallet."

"Don’t blame me for Tom Ford’s sudden aversion to clothing with real pockets," Adam says. "I didn’t think I’d have to pay for anything tonight."

There’s a world of psychoanalysis in that statement, probably, but Kris is too tired and worn to bother with it. "Fine, but you owe me cab fare."

"Duly noted."

"And you owe me for the crackers."

Adam frowns. "Which technically I already paid for.."

"What, now you feel like admitting to it?" Kris challenges.

At which point Brady pulls open the door and says, "Oh, hey, this goes without saying but don’t try to drive or anything. That stuff tends to scramble your head for a while. In fact, you should probably have someone keep an eye on in case there are reactions to it."

Kris makes a note kick his door every morning for a week.

****

+x+x+x+

In the length of time it takes for them to stumble from Brad and Brady’s apartment to Kris’, the drug not only manages to kick in, but to also wrestle Adam to the ground in the process. Since Kris lives exactly one floor down from Brad, this is not an optimistic development.

"I feel severely not-awesome," Adam informs the world at large. He totters against the doorframe while Kris digs out his keys. "Like, you know when you’re too high to appreciate it? I’m there."

"That’s great, please don’t throw up." Kris pulls out a handful of keys—dressing room locker, mailbox, bar cabinet, gym locker—

"How do you keep track of that mess? I’m buying you a keychain."

—apartment, yes! Kris slots it into the lock and twists viciously. "Save your money, superstar. I hate those things. Okay, come on, can you make it across the doorstep?"

"What are my options?" Adam asks. Kris neglects to point out that he could carry him in a pinch, but it’s a squeeze he’d rather not put himself in.

"Don’t push it," Kris warns.

"I’m not trying to retract my apology or anything," Adam says, "but I do think this is an overreaction. You weren’t like this about the toaster."

"The toaster was cheating," Kris says. "How was I supposed to return it? The receipt was in Japanese."

"It wouldn’t have worked anyway," Adam says. He ducks down to untie his laces and then seems stumped by the fact that the boots don't have any. The combined mental and physical exertion reduces him to sitting on the floor. "The receipt was from an all-night mini-market in Osaka, for some onigiri. Did you ever have real onigiri? We should get some."

"Sure," Kris says. He kneels, batting Adam's hands aside, and pulls on the boot. "Oh, wait, no, because I don't picnic with guys I'm mad at."

"You're still mad?" The boot comes off with a savage tug, and Adam reels back slightly, slumping against a wall. "Kris, come on, I’m sorry. Okay? I’m sorry. None of this was about insulting you."

"I’m pretty sure it wasn’t about me at all," Kris says.

Adam squints at him. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Let’s be serious. That —" Kris waves his hand "—was for your entertainment. You didn’t 'forget' to tell me because you wanted to surprise me; you were showing off." He stands up with a hitch. His leg doesn't hurt, exactly, but it's a bit awkward. "I'm going to get you a cool towel. Maybe it'll help the swelling."

What did the stunt cost Adam, anyway, Kris wonders as he twists a hand towel under the tap. From the sound of Ro's conversation, it seems that Adam had to only press a button on his cell to have a circus arranged for him. It's an impulse buy to him. Kris thinks back to the lights, the drinks, the music, the people—all gathered and arranged within barely two days, and Adam giggling about it like a kid. Kris used to know people with that sort of magic money, but it had been a distant knowledge. He's never had to deal with that sort of influence face to face.

When he comes back, Adam is still on the floor with the one boot on his foot. He's picked up the other one and is staring at. Kris frowns, a little worried.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing, just…that’s really horrible." Adam sets down the boot. "Wow."

"Is the itching getting worse?" Kris asks, concerned. He steps closer to press the damp cloth to Adam's cheek. He wonders if Brady will forgive him for waking him up again. "Are you feeling nauseous? Does anything hurt?"

"No, it's not, I'm fine." Adam takes the towel and then, surprisingly, lets it drop into his lap and wraps his hand around Kris' instead. The feel of his skin is shockingly warm after the cold water.

"I'm sorry," he says again. Kris opens his mouth— _okay, thank you_ —but Adam shakes his head. "No, listen, I _am_ sorry. For the party, sure, but also for— Look, you're right about me showing off, but not about the other half of it." Kris frowns at him. "The you part."

"You wanted me impressed," Kris says.

"I’m not saying I didn’t," Adam enunciates. "But that wasn’t the major point. I just wanted to— I didn't want to be your regular at the bar."

"You’re the only nonalcoholic standing drink order at Idol," Kris says. "Trust me, you stand out."

"I meant I wanted it to be like the first time," Adam says. "At Idol, when you thought I was someone random. We had something fun, then, didn’t we?"

"Is that what dating you is about, then? Fun?"

"Sometimes?" Adam's mouth pulls to the side, a little wry. "I like to relax, you know? My office hours are unpredictable, so I try to….""Cram as much fun as you can into your after-hour life?" Kris guesses. Adam shrugs. "I sleep."

Adam turns to look at him with a confused line between his eyebrows. Kris can't help but grin a little at the way the wrinkle makes Adam look like a baffled cat. "That's what takes up my daylight time. Sleep, with occasional bursts of laundry. I wake up to work and, if I'm lucky, to remember to buy toothpaste and screw up paying my bills." Kris shrugs, feeling like he's sliding off someone else's coat, the wrong fit all around. "What I mean is—"

And that’s where Kris has to stop, helpless, because he doesn’t know what he means.

"Which bills?" Adam asks. Kris frowns at him. "Brad never told me something was wrong, he just said you were interested in a spot of extra cash. So, what bills? Who do you owe?"

"I don't—" Kris exhales hard, not offended at this point, just reminded of the frustration. "I'm not good with money. I mean, I don't spend it on anything weird, I just forget and go overboard on some stuff. Sometimes."

"Stuff," Adam says. "Like...phone bills?"

"Like booze," Kris says frankly.

"Booze," Adam says.

"Yeah," Kris says. "I tend to go overboard, y’know? But there’s just so much to try out. I try to ration it, but I typically go through three bottles."

"A week?" Adam says.

"A night," Kris says.

" _Every_ night?"

"Sometimes?" Kris tries to count back, but it’s tricky; he tends to get sloppy about keeping track after the third bottle. "Plus, there’s also the stuff that gets spent on practice. I need a lot of practice."

"For what?" Adam spits out. "Repetitive liver transplants? Kris, this—this sounds like a problem."

"What? No, it’s not." Kris frowns, because, seriously, a night!"

" _What_?" Kris says. "Why would I? Are you nuts, that’d kill me."

"You just said—" Adam’s eyes widen. "Oh. Wait. You’re a bartender."

"Obviously!" Kris says. "I never got any real training at it, except what I’ve picked up on the job. So I’ve been playing around with mixing new stuff and testing it out at the club. If something gets a good response and doesn’t break the bank, Cassidy lets me put it in stock. But I have to pay for my own experiments."

"Oh," Adam says again. "That’s a lot less...alcoholic than it first sounded."

"You thought I was broke because I’m an alcoholic." He can’t even make it into a question.

"Only for a little while. Like, a minute, tops." Adam falls back against the wall, deflated. "This night is so not going according to plan."

"Yeah, I can see that," Kris says. "But to be fair, the parts you planned, I hated."

"I know," Adam moans. "I had to turn spotty and diseased for you to like me again."

"It’s allergies, not the bubonic plague. You’re ridiculously dramatic. How are you in charge of anybody’s money, seriously?"

"I’m good with money," Adam says. "I’m typically good with parties—" Kris feels a wince in his gut, unsettled by the echo of his own earlier thoughts ,"—and people, and small fluffy pets of indefinable origin, and foreign banks, and even Capricorns. You’re the jinx that won’t cooperate."

"Stop trying to bribe me into it," Kris says.

"I didn’t," Adam starts, but settles down. "Okay, so maybe I did. Slightly."

"Well, don’t. Not even slightly." Kris stretches his other leg, rubbing his knee again. "I don’t enjoy being lied to like I don’t know any better. I don’t like being used like that."

They sit quietly in the low-cost fluorescence of Kris’ cut-rate living room. Kris’ shirt still smells like the party: smoke, sweat, the inescapable reminder of having been around other people. He feels tired, but not tired enough for it to be familiar. He’s used to wearing himself thin to the tendon, the sort of clean exhaustion that drops you like a bullet. This is just…tired.

"I’m sorry," Adam says finally.

"I know," Kris says simply.

"I wasn’t trying to pay you into dating," Adam says. "I’m not actually shopping for a boyfriend."

"Good, because I don’t date."

"All right then," Adam says. "Got any paper?"

"What?"

"Paper. Pen. I’d ask for an iPad but let’s be serious." He shrugs at Kris’ confusion. "I told you I’m good with money. So let’s write down whatever ridiculous amounts you’ve been blowing on your booze exploration and budget that crap."

"You want to make me…a budget," Kris says.

"I’d probably make an even worse boyfriend than you," Adam says. "But I’m hell on wheels with fiscal foresight." He rolls his head against the wall, turning to face Kris fully. The smile on his face is a little less shiny, a little less brave. But nice, really nice. "Friends help friends budget their alcoholic investigations. So, paper, pen, budget."

"Right." Kris looks around, chewing his lip. "Um."

"You’re breaking my heart," Adam says and shoves his hand down his, well, Kris figured the pants had pockets in theory, he just never imagined where they’d actually be. In a dimension-bending feat of physics, Adam pulls out a tiny—

"Eyeliner?"

"Eyeliner pencil," Adam says. He takes off the little metallic cap and tests the nub against his thumb; it leaves a creamy streak of blue. He glances at Kris. "Please, spare my nerves and say you at least have paper."

Kris opens his mouth, to protest or tease, he’s not sure, but then has to actually stop and think about it.

"Right," Adam says flatly. A gleam of determination shines in his splotched expression and he pushes up from the wall, going on his knees and padding, on palms and knees, toward Kris’ cardboard table. He pulls off the makeshift tablecloth and settles down, pencil in hand.

"That’s vandalism," Kris says. "You are vandalizing my prized possession."

Adam doesn’t look up from his scribbling. “I’m allocating. Realigning your current resources to better support future expenses, regardless of what sized bottle they’d be. For the record, Mr. Allen, people usually pay me a lot of very nice money to do this sort of thing for them.”

“I could make you a drink,” Kris says innocently. “Plus do I get a discount on account of the fact that you’re doing this while doped to the gills?”

“It’s helping me to ignore itching. Don’t worry, I’ll check it again in the morning,” Adam says. The eyeliner slows down. “Or whenever. Listen, if I haven’t had a reaction by now, I think it’s fair to call things safe. How about I call another cab?

Kris looks at him, splotchy and cunning and possibly a little nuts, and not at all the easy thing Kris suspected him to be when he slept with him. But there are still some glimpses of that guy, the attraction, peeking through. A smart man would call it a warning.

Kris touches the pocket of his shirt and takes his chances.

“It’s fine,” he says. “You can stay.”

**X+x+x+x+X**


	3. Chapter 3

**X+x+x+x+X**

_"The physical language of the body is so much more powerful than words."_ **~Bill Irwin**

"You’re supposed to spit," Kris says. "I told you that. You’re supposed to _spit_."

"That’s not how I show love," Brad says. He flicks his fingers. "Come on, gimme another."

"Not unless you promise," Kris says. "I’m serious. Spit, don’t swallow."

"God, you sound repressed." Brad rolls his eyes. "Fine, agreed, okay. I’ll spit." He licks his lip, his tongue chasing salt. "But I’m doing so under protest, mark that on record. I hate wasting free booze."

"You’re no good as a taste tester if you’re drunk off your nut," Kris says. "And I’m feeling guilty enough as it is."

"Quit it, then. I’m a big boy," Brad says, sitting up on the barstool and tilting his chin up.

"You weigh less than the cat Matt keeps swearing he doesn’t feed by the dumpster, and that thing is missing a leg and most of the tail."

"I’m still voting that it’s a rat with follicle issues," Brad says. He rattles his glass against the clean bar top. Also, dry and dying over here, hello. Your tip is withering."

"Darn, I was really counting on that shiny new nickel."

"What and ever," Brad says. He squints at Kris' hands. "Is that—are those apples? Why do you have apples sullying the honor of the booze?"

Kris ignores him and tips the pitcher's lip over the strainer, watching the clear mix waterfall into the glass. There are indeed bits of apple, thin, snappy matchsticks, floating in the pitcher, and there are fresher, less-drained wedges waiting among the ice cubes in the glass. He adds soda water before sliding the glass over to Brad.

Brad takes the drink with supreme suspicion. "Hmm."

"Come _on_ ," Kris says.

"What, shut up." Brad sips, making a show of pushing it around his cheeks, before leaning over and spitting into the coffee mug volunteered for the purpose. He smacks his lips.

"Fizzy," he says. "Where's the kick coming from? It's not vodka; I know vodka."

"Soju," Kris says. "It's Korean, a brand called Jinro. You noticed how it was a little sweet, right? I figured that'd be nice with apples."

"It's very nice," Brad says. "But...you know what I'm going to say, right?"

"It's not for Idol," Kris says flatly.

"Sorry, baby, I'm not dumping on your intentions, but there's no way Cass will sign off on Korean apple martinis that take, what, an hour to prepare."

"Half an hour to soak and chill," Kris says, but he's not fighting it.

Brad pats his hand. "It's very tasty, and you're pretty, don't cry. Where did you get Korean hooch anyway?"

"Shockingly enough, Koreatown," Kris says. "We were trying to find a place that serves blowfish soup, but got completely sidetracked and ended up buying a bunch of random bottles in this tiny little store. You should’ve seen us trying to lug it all back to my place. I honestly thought someone was going to get arrested."

"Wouldn’t that be the nicest story?" Brad says. He rolls the glass between his palms. "So…."

"What?"

"Nothing, nothing." The glass makes another revolution. "It’s _we_ now, I see. Should I ask who exactly that entails?"

Kris points the towel at him. "Don’t. Start." He snaps the towel. "What’s wrong? You only start badgering me about _your_ ex when you’re too scared to admit you’re worried about something, so spill."

"I'm not worried about anything," Brad says. "I'm. I’m whatever, you know."

Bored. Brad is as professional as you can get around body glitter and tear-away snaps, but he's the victim of his own best feature: his creativity. Kris sees him straining at the bit often enough, the way the sharp notes of his face glaze halfway through the night. Kris understands, because Kris knows boredom. He knows the utter frustration of folding into the same set of steps ten times in one hour, only to be told to do so again and again and again. It makes you stale and angry, especially if you believe there's something better to be had.

Having options, Kris thinks, is exhausting.

"I just want to find something to be surprised about up there," Brad says, nodding at the stage, now soundless and powerless. "I'm tired of pretending to be excited about my own junk—blessed be its magical proportions and abilities."

"I thought you were going to try something new with Jensen?" He comes around the bar, wiping his hand on a cleaner towel, one of the goofy bar towels Johnny keeps sneaking in. This one has a giant-eared...monkey...thing on it. Very Johnny; rather odd.

"Jensen is too tall, the freakin’ moose. Everyone is either too tall or two scrawny. Cass really needs to diversify the hiring pool. I want some muscle in the height sector." Brad huffs, kicking up his ankle to rest it easily on the bar’s edge. His line is faulty, Kris can’t help noticing.

"Careful," he says, and takes the slim ankle in hand, guiding it down. "You’ll rip something if you keep forgetting to stretch."

"I never forget, and I’m plenty stretched," Brad says airily, leg still in Kris’ hold. "I’m at the top of my game, Allen."

"All right," Kris says easily and _pulls_.

Brad’s explosive fuck is lost in the corkscrew of motion and air, his arms flailing outward to grasp for balance. Kris doesn’t let him catch, but neither does he let him fall. Brad is a small thing, barely a few pounds shy of skinny, and it’s nothing hard to catch his body and guide it into a classic bend, Kris’ hands anchoring him at the back and waist.

"What the hell was that?" Brad yells. His breathing is fast and light, excited.

"Always stretch," Kris says. "And learn to keep a solid core; your balance is rotten."

"Huh," Brad says. The calmness of it immediately makes Kris’ nervous. Brad is a much safer variable when he’s threatening to bite off your nose or screaming; serenity is not to be trusted.

"What?" Kris says.

"Could you do that again?" Brad asks.

"No," Kris says and tugs the slighter man back onto both feet before letting go.

"Okay, then can you do something else?" Brad asks. "Could you, hey, could you lift me?"

"My grandmother could carry you in her purse, Brad."

"Your grandma was a kinky bastard, noted." Brad’s eyes are alight, curious. "No, but I’m serious. Could you lift me, in a way that doesn’t look like you’re hefting potatoes or are courting a hernia?"

"Not without getting a hernia," Kris says.

" _Kris_."

"No."

****

+x+x+x+

"When I say jump," Kris says. "Do it."

Brad’s tone curdles into shrewdness. "Wait, just like that? Just jump? How is that going to be enough?"

"Either you agree or this isn’t happening. This is a one-time offer," Kris says. "Expiring in three, two—"

"Fine, fine!" Up go the magnificent hands, their owner vibrating with agitation beneath them. He braces himself, suspicious to the last, and nods. "Okay, say it."

Kris flexes his hands, carefully positioned on Brad’s thin waist, and—"Jump!"— _lifts_.

He knows how to do this correctly. In some eyes, it's simple math. Katy and he were initially paired for the sake of convenience, matching in rank and height (he was short, she was tiny). They made a pretty picture, everyone said, complementary as one foot to another, functional as a pair of bookends, practical as a marriage.

Brad isn’t Katy. He doesn’t know shit about keeping a tight core or sinking into a deep plié for lift off. He doesn’t understand centering. By the standard of Kris’ old world, Brad isn’t even an amateur; he’s a nonentity. Lucky for everyone, that world is on the other side of the country, inexplicably existing as the alien nation of New York, and Brad is here. His waist is reassuringly solid in Kris’ hold, and his legs throw his body easily, fearlessly upward. He doesn’t panic at going up, but instead instinctively tries to go stiff. Kris appreciates the effort. He lifts Brad cleanly into the air, high enough that he could attempt to balance the lighter man on his shoulder.

"Whoa," Brad says. "This is— Okay, I’m sticking with _whoa_."

Honestly, Kris is a little impressed, himself. This is like nothing he’s tried in nearly two years, and yet the action is smooth, automatic. He feels the exertion in his legs, in the compressed muscles of his stomach, the security of his own hands, his thumbs tucked under Brad's ribs, letting the weight balance against his palms instead of his fingers. Professionally, the flaws are many—he’s raised Brad unnecessarily high, Brad’s unsteady shoulders, his own line visibly flawed, tottery—but he can also feel the overall completion of the motion. When he sets Brad down, there’s no strain. He forgot that part, the way it could feel: beautiful.

The applause hits him like a slap.

"Bravo! Bravo!" Adam winds through the forest of upturned chairs with his hands enthusiastically clapping. He stops, thank God, only to stick two fingers in his mouth and _whistle_.  
Because this is your life, Kristopher Allen. "Encore!"

Kris steps back, trips over a chair, and crashes to the floor like a shot horse.

"Fuck!" Brad says, startled. "Kris, honey, are you alright? I’m going to kick the cleaners’ ass; they’re supposed to put the chairs away. Are you okay, did you break your ass?"

"I’m fine, I’m fine," Kris says. His elbow is vibrating painfully but harmlessly with the shock of hitting the ulnar nerve. It’s a completely unimportant injury; they never even had a word for them back when he—

Hands slide under his arms, lifting easily.

"There we are," Adam says. "No damage, not even a scratch to sue over. Sorry, you’ll have to stick with working for a living."

"Doesn’t matter, I signed an insurance waiver when they hired me," Kris says, a little dazed. Adam is no longer holding him up; instead his hands are warm on Kris’ shoulders. Large hands, well-shaped and cared for. His manicure is bronze.

"Simon still hasn’t updated his injury policies?" Adam asks. His face tightens. "Cheap asshole."

"We’ll pass your worries to the HR department." Brad rolls his eyes and flicks Adam’s hands until they release Kris to make room for his fussing and checking instead. Kris shrugs Brad off.

"I’m fine," he repeats.

"You’re stubborn," Brad says. He looks to Adam. "You know he worked two and a half shifts back to back last week? The half was only because I threatened to concuss him with a bottle of Jack if he didn’t get the fuck out from behind the bar and go home. God only knows what would have happened if it was a dancing shift."

"Because of Monte’s kid's thing at kindergarten, right?" Adam shakes his head. "You guys need bartenders more than you need dancers. I don’t know why you don’t ask Cass to just switch you to full time behind the bar, Kris."

Brad cuts a sharp look at the remark, probably displeased to have his bid for support foiled. Kris speaks up before things escalate. God only know how long they’ll go on if management policy comes up.

"Shouldn’t we get going?" he asks Adam. "The appointment is at three, right?"

It works. Adam glances at his watch, a thick serpentine thoroughbred of Swiss ingenuity that could probably bankroll a revolution. "Three thirty, but yeah, we need to be on the road. Traffic is adventurous today."

"Are we talking about something fun?" Brad asks.

"Absolutely," Adam says. "Kris is going to be my wingman."

Kris nods solemnly.

"At three fucking o’clock on a Sunday?" Brad looks at them with an increasingly disgruntled expression. Finally, he shakes his head and turns back to the stage to pick up his zip-up. "You know what, forget it. You two are beyond hope."

"He promised me lunch," Kris says.

"Hopeless and fat," Brad says.

Adam laughs that wide open laugh of his and throws an arm around Brad’s skinny shoulders, kissing the top of the shorter man’s head noisily. "More of Kris to love, more of me to hate. Come with us. We’re going to be mean to real estate agents in expensive suits. You’ll love it."

"God, are you still trying to find something?" Brad turns to Kris. "He’s been trying to buy a place for nearly four years. It’s pathetic." He looks up at Adam. "You’re pathetic."

Adam grins and pecks his nose, resulting in Brad baring his teeth as if he’s going to bite something off. They really are amazingly good friends, Kris thinks. He wonders if Brady ever gets jealous. It would be easy to, watching them be like this. Anyone would feel it.

"Let me just grab my jacket," Kris says and heads off for the dressing room. September in LA is practically August in New York, but he’s too used to dressing according to the calendar rather than barometer. The windbreaker is more symbolic than functional, but it calms his sensibilities.

When he returns to the main room, Brad is half on the bar, ass in the air. Adam is frowning at his phone.

"Kris! Where the fuck is the white wine?" Bottles click with Brad’s rummaging. "I’m making dinner tonight."

Kris grabs the back of Brad’s skinny belt. "Don’t steal the good stuff. There’s half a bottle of Cristal in the break room; take that."

"You want me to woo my husband with leftovers? _Cheap_ leftovers?" Brad says. He twists, quick as a lizard, and slides off the bar. Unexpectedly, he leans to peck Kris’ cheek on his way down. "Go. Play, purchase, make sure our boy doesn’t do anything to embarrass the royal one percent."

"It’ll be nothing they can prove in court, I swear." Adam slips his phone back inside his jacket. He takes a step toward the door, then takes it back. "Kris?"

Kris salutes. "Let’s go buy a house."

****

+x+x+x+

It’s a little hard to remember now who was more surprised the first time they did this—Kris or the real estate agent. On the other hand, Kris got to wear jeans and didn’t have to worry about a commission.

Now, their fifth—eighth?—time in, Kris doesn’t worry about wearing shoes indoors or losing the agent’s card—everyone in this city has a card; Kris worries about the trees. Having his hand professionally shaken by someone with twenty thousand dollars’ worth of dental work and a three-piece suit doesn’t faze him anymore. Unfortunately, Kris’ Converse and unexplained status waned in shock value after the third penthouse-condo-palace, but Adam remains optimistic.

("You’re my red herring," Adam says. "Like with Hitchcock? You’re the fake clue that throws them off balance. You’re my Everyman ace."

"I feel like an accessory," Kris says. "To murder.")

The agent is waiting for them in front of the building. He’s young—everybody is young in LA; it’s dizzying—and is dressed in a lightweight suit that probably isn’t officially a suit. The turquoise bracelet on his wrist looks like something Adam would wear.

"Mr. Lambert, Mr. Allen." So, okay, it’s going to be that sort of showing then. "It’s wonderful to have you here today. How was the drive?"

"Brilliant," Adam smiles, all teeth.

So, okay, it’s going to be _that_ sort of showing then.

****

+x+x+x+

"—and you can see, right there, where the architectural detail was restored by our artisans. Museum-trained, of course. The previous owner wanted complete neo-Versailles, nothing but Céte d’Or chocolate and Beckenstein fabrics." The agent nods conspiratorially. "He was from Vermont, so."

 _So?_ Kris mouths from behind the man’s back, but Adam is already nodding and moving on. He’s obviously not going to break character.

Character is an excellent word for it, because the apartment is pure theatre. Fields of floor space, epic stairs, a fantasy dressing room…Kris is touring a modern fairytale. The kitchen is downright mythological. The penthouse is a sprawling, light-soaked orchard of wall space and fixtures. The professionally designed "sun garden" sits behind the sliding glass doors like an ivory collectible. Kris is pretty sure it’s impossible to find more expensive grass outside of a drug bust.

Temptation is everywhere. The bedrooms are outfitted with lures like Italian linen, each thread engineered to conduct LA heat. A spiral staircase curls smooth as a shell. The main floor, the "great room", is completely open to the light, bared beautifully by walls of windows: a panorama of light. The mezzanine is cut like a grand balcony, curving back like a piano. There are occasional stray columns, like the fat stalwart bearer in the guest bedroom, but for the most part the penthouse puts nothing between its owner and the air. The kitchen is sheathed in stainless steel and has unpronounceable Swiss accents, flanked by a climate-controlled wine room. There are two fridges. God only knows what kind of nonsense Adam will be able to talk himself into with two fridges.

They pause in one ( _ha!_ ) of the dressing rooms, where the agent is eager to point out that it could easily double as an office.

"Hmm, I don't think so," Adam says. "I don't like to bring work home with me."

"Of course," the agent—Kevin? Kenny? Keith?—agrees. "But still, don't you just love the potential?"

"Hmm," Adam says, pitiless.

It’s cruel, the way Kevin-Kenny-Keith strains to please. Kris can’t bear it. "You could always rent it out. Do you think my table would fit in here?"

"Dear God, not the fucking box," Adam says. "Why would you bring it up? We’re having a perfectly nice time pretending to be civilized people, and you bring it up. That thing is a cancer upon the face of real estate, Kris. I swear I will put your name on the lease if you promise to throw out the fucking box."

"Did I tell you I got a new tablecloth? It’s laminated."

It's kind of cute, really, Kris thinks, watching Adam wear his scowl out of the room and toward the master bathroom. Adam is a one-man show, complete with special effects.

But when he turns back, the agent is watching _him_ , not Adam.

****

+x+x+x+

"Have you gotten your costume yet?" Adam asks.

Kris shrugs. They're communing with the kitchen, Adam poking the detailed nooks and molded crannies, muttering suspiciously around the stove about heat spots while Kris sits on the marble counter and tries not to do something really juvenile like drum his heels against the cabinet under him. Additionally, they're crunching their way through a box of sweet Korean crackers, because the fridge they're nearest to is full of that sort of stuff. There's also wine and steaks, but Kris is forbidden to notice them; Adam made plans for lunch.

"Brad knows a place in Melrose that has decent stuff for cheap," Kris says. "Apparently the gear rarely survives the night, so there's no point in wasting money on anything sturdy. We're going to check it out this Friday."

"I can't decide if sturdy sounds ominous or optimistic. Exactly whose Halloween party is your costume not meant to survive?" Adam asks.

"Simon's." Kris grins at Adam's confused frown. "I'm working Halloween night. You didn't know?"

"No," Adam says. "I didn't."

"What about you? Are you going to trick or treat at Spielberg's house or something?"

"I'm going to Brad's party," Adam says impatiently. "I thought you were, too. What the hell, why are you working if he's not? Is this some kind of seniority bullshit?"

"Nah, I'm covering for Tommy," Kris says.

Adam frowns. "Again."

He's right; Tommy's band has been steadily picking up more work around town, and the shows aren't kind to his Idol schedule. But Tommy loves playing more than Kris likes his naps on the couch. Though admittedly he hasn't been spending that much time there lately; he's usually hanging out with Adam. The thought gives Kris pause. He knows he spends a lot of time with Adam, but it feels like the first time realizing he spends _most_ of his time with Adam.

Huh.

"—that money for, anyway."

"Sorry?" Kris wades back into focus. "I blanked out, what?"

"I said," Adam drawls, banging around the cupboards, "why are you suddenly so keen on racking up hours? Did Brad finally browbeat you into getting a credit card? Drugs? Online poker?"

"It's not about the money. I'm just helping out," Kris says. He ignores Adam's snort. "What's with the second degree, hypocrite? You work crazy hours all the time. This is the first time you've invited me out for lunch in nearly two weeks." Which sounds really...odd when said aloud. He slides off the counter. "I mean, is everything okay? You seem frazzled."

Adam's eyes soften. The blue changes a little when they do that, turns lighter, like graying ink.

"Yeah, I'm sorry." He smiles. "Things are slightly nuts at work. Boring business crap, you know? But unfortunately it's something I can't really dump on someone else's desk."

"Welcome to the working stiff's dilemma," Kris says. "Slaving for the wages. Grinding for the dollar. Bending over for the man."

"I’m pretending your word choice is accidental," Adam says. He stands up, abandoning the cupboards, and leans his elbows on the marble island on the other side of Kris. "Blow off work."

"Tonight?"

"Sure," Adam grins. He pops open the box and takes another cracker. "But do it on Halloween, too. Call in sick or dead or whatever, and hang out with me instead. I know where to score the best candy."

"You're rich," Kris says. "You can buy your own candy. I'm not going to blow off work when I promised to be there because you need emotional support begging for candy corn."

"You're so fucking responsible," Adam says. "It’s lame."

"You're a brat," Kris says and steals Adam's cracker.

"Gentlemen," the agent calls out, "are you ready for the bedroom?"

****

+x+x+x+

Kris is staring out one of the fifty-foot windows when Kevin comes up to nod at the glass. "Bulletproof."

"You're kidding," Kris says. "Please tell me you're kidding."

"Yeah, pretty much." Kevin grins. "But don't think that it doesn't happen. I have a place in Sonoma that lists "safety glass" as an amenity; the original owner wanted extra protection in the bedroom. Scout's honor, that's exactly how the primary blueprints describe it."

"Does anybody date normally in this town?" Kris asks, halfway sincere, and Kevin laughs. He doesn't seem like a bad guy, whatever the price of his socks.

"Supply and demand," Kevin shrugs, looking a little wry. "And the demands get pretty loud when money's doing the talking in this town. Or, well, in any town that can afford to attract the money, I guess. But I don't have to tell you about that."

"I suppose not," Kris says.

"Lambert is quite the character," Kevin says. (Although, seriously, who says stuff like that?) "I mean, you hear the rumors but—wow. Just, wow."

"Well, you know what they say about listening to rumors," Kris says politely.

"Oh, God, no, I'm not criticizing. I think he's great," Kevin says. "Downright amazing if we're going to talk about it. He's, what, barely a sneeze past thirty. I can't imagine having that kind of clout and still being so—" Kevin waves a hand. His nails are smooth but colorless. "—lighthearted."

"Then why are you so scared of him?" Kris says, because he doesn't feel like pretending otherwise or laughing along. "All of you, watching him like someone is going to explode. He's a good guy."

Kevin looks at him, still smiling but quieter now, and without the previous hard-lacquer intensity.

"He's Adam fucking Lambert," he says. "That's something worth being nervous about."

"Maybe I just don't see it," Kris says.

Kevin makes a noncommittal noise. "Eye of the beholder. You obviously know him better. Do you two work together or...?"

"What do you think."

"Can't fault a boy for asking," Kevin shrugs. "You're the foreign element, Mr. Allen. Everybody is wondering about you."

"Why, so you can give me a deal on a three bathroom condo?" Kris asks. "I think your product is a bit out of my price range."

"Oh, you never know," Kevin says. "Personally, I'm always willing to find a deal for a friend. Or a friend of a friend, even."

"It probably helps when one of those friends is considering buying a nine million dollar penthouse."

Kevin smiles. "It certainly doesn't hurt."

"Are you...." Kris is momentarily lost. "You're honestly offering to bribe me?" The agent doesn’t flinch. "Save your money. And your real estate. I've got no vote on what he buys. He'll do whatever he likes."

"He likes you," Kevin says.

"That doesn't mean you can bundle me up with the rest of the amenities," Kris says. "I'm not a fridge magnet. I'm not even sleeping with him."

"Are you straight?"

Like _that’s_ the point. "You can't just assume—"

"Kris!" comes the shout, a breath of warning before Adam’s head pokes into view. "I found the dumbwaiter. Come help me figure out how much we can stuff into it. Start with the footstools."

****

+x+x+x+

What Kris notices first is the smoke. How can he not? It's heady, charcoal-souled and carnivorous: the breath of a really, really good barbecue. Kris can feel it sinking into his hair and shirt like a fragrant rain. It's torture. Halfway to their seats, Kris is ready to chew through the table.

The table has backless stools and a stainless steel grill in the middle. Adam unhesitatingly peels off his jacket and folds it on the spare seat, then shoves up his shirt sleeves.

"You're going to love this," he warns.

Fifteen minutes later, Kris thinks he'll settle for surviving. He's helplessly picking his way through half a dozen shallow dishes of appetizers—"Banchan," Adam corrects—dipping and nibbling recklessly. The so-called potato salad is tangy with peas, scallions, and chives. The seaweed is crunchy and tasty. Tiny fried silverfish are lavishly painted with a thick, sweet soy sauce. Kris ignores the soybean sprouts and oiled broccoli out of childish pride, until Adam forces a drippy knot of the sprouts into his mouth; the tart strands are cold and firm, amazing. Biting into a scallion-topped jelly square is a revelatory experience.

Then there is the meat, and the meat is _awesome_. Adam waves away the earnest, disapproving waiter to man the grill himself, watching the little flames under the metal slots of the lattice with a connoisseur’s eye. It’s not really surprising when the waiter brings a heaping plateful of marinated meat in revenge; Adam does that to people.

The pork belly is so thin they must have scalped the pig. Adam lovingly spreads the fatty strips next to boneless ribs, each wedge slashed to better let in the smoke. A minute of heat and then the meat is on Kris' plate, ready to scorch the willing. Brisket and translucent shrimp follow, along with tenderloin and chicken that’s puffy-soft inside. Pork neck, Kris discovers, is gloriously chewy and delicious enough to justify vampirism.

"Are you going to tell me what the real estate monkey did to piss you off?" Adam asks. "I mean, I'm going to have him beheaded either way, but it'd be nice to have a specific offense in mind."

"You're hysterical," Kris says.

"In so many ways," Adam nods. "But I'm serious, what did he do?"

"Nothing," Kris says. "Pass the chili stuff?"

Adam takes the little bottle and moves it further away. "Kris, you went from sprawling to glaring. That's not nothing, and it's certainly not you."

"Because pushy salesmen are inherently lovable otherwise," Kris says. He motions for the spicy paste again. Adam grudgingly hands it over. "Don't bother about it, he was just annoying."

"You're usually a lot better about dealing with annoying," Adam says.

"He offered me a bonus if I convinced you to buy the apartment."

"That doesn't sound completely insulting." Adam’s tone is very, very careful but not enough to keep Kris from frowning at him. "Unless ‘convince’ involves strawberry body oil and an apology to the maid service the next day. In which case, he can be destroyed, just say the word. I know people who know people who owe my mom big time." He leans, jaw stiff with false menace. "People with accents, Kris."

"He pretty much offered to buy the oil," Kris says. "Look, how about we just forget it? The guy was a moron."

"This bothers you," Adam says, surprised. "This really bothers you."

"Shouldn't it?"

Adam shrugs. "I don't know, I didn't think you were that worried about the street value of your virtue." His face immediately warps, aghast. "Fuck, okay, no, that's not what I meant."

"That's good," Kris says, "because I don't feel like punching you right now. What I don't understand is why it doesn't bother _you_."

"What, why would it?"

He has to be kidding. "They think I'm sleeping with you for money, Adam. It's like, great news, the bank approved your right to have company, go get 'em, sexy tiger. How is that not insulting?"

"I know, especially with my people skills." There’s a pause while Adam’s chopsticks investigate the kimchee bowl. "So you're against people liking me for my money...but okay with someone being attracted to my Yelp reviews. Interesting." Another pause. "Go get 'em, sexy tiger?"

"Shut up," Kris says. "Or I'm calling the bank."

Adam zips his mouth, fingertips pinched together. Kris kind of wants to smack him, or ruffle his dumb, pretty hair.

He squashes the feeling. "Is it your turn yet?"

"Hmm?" Adam pokes his beef.

"What's got you so worried?" Kris says.

"I think they changed chefs; my tongue is salty." He pokes Kris’ meat again. 

"You've been robbing my plate for the past ten minutes," Kris says. "You do that when you're nervous. Or stressed."

"What?" Adam looks down to realize Kris is right. "Shit, I'm sorry. It's the worst habit, I know."

"Uh huh." Kris holds out a piece of meat with his chopsticks. After a moment, Adam leans in and pulls it off with his teeth.

"It’s all very blah, blah, blah," Adam says, chewing. He looks away, eyes scanning for the waiter. "Blah."

 _Tell me_ , Kris wants to say. He has a visceral urge to reach out and grab Adam’s hand, force his attention, to push. If the room was bigger and the lights brighter, he would do it. But the image of it, their hands together, no matter how innocently meant, is claustrophobic in the bustling restaurant.

"You should fire them all," Kris says. He reaches out and picks up his glass. "Just, presto, axe them."

"Now there’s a lasting fantasy," Adam says, turning back with a grin. "I’d make a great despot, don’t you think?"

"You have the hair for it."

"See, that’s why I like you," Adam says. He prods a bit of pork closer to the fire. "You keep me humble."

****

+x+x+x+

Kris never thought of orange as a sexy color, but Idol is making a strong effort to change his mind on the matter. Ginger lights speckle the bar, blinking cheerfully among the sudden wealth of black. Black drinks, black candy, black matches, black napkins. The drama is tilted slightly off kilter by the little glass pumpkin ashtrays scattered around the tables.

Kris likes the pumpkins best of all.

The staff dress code for the night is lax; costumes are unassigned, but theater is expected. Some of the dancers have more than one. Johnny is on his third, and it’s not even midnight. Kris is impressed—and a little frightened—by the level of dedication.

The music is in the same vein as the costumes, though a few songs are specifically, blatantly banned, despite some opinions that there _is_ a way to strip to _Monster Mash_.

"That’s disturbing," Kris says.

Jensen grins. He’s wearing deliberately grimy jeans, a rough jacket flapping over a bare chest, and a hard hat? Apparently, he’s a miner. "Nah, this is nothing. Last year, Brad and Johnny tried to do the alphabet song." That doesn’t sound so bad. "You should’ve seen them forming the G."

"I will swear to do your drinks ahead of everyone else’s if you don’t explain that," Kris says.

"Deal," Jensen says. "Why the hell aren’t you wearing a costume, anyway?"

"He is," intrudes a familiar voice, a heavy arm settling around Kris’ shoulders. "He’s the ghost of spirits past and present."

Kris is grinning before he even turns around. "Was that a pun? Because it was terrible."

"Bullshit, it was endearing," Adam says. He's wearing, of all things, a shirt. A plain, white bread, ordinary dress shirt. It doesn't even have blood on it. Kris thinks there's a bit of color underneath—a t-shirt maybe—but still.

"Boring," he accuses. Adam grins and starts unbuttoning. Kris rolls his eyes.

"Pretending to be a stripper in a strip club isn't—" Kris says, and then Adam takes off the shirt.

The tattoos are precisely contained; they go from wrist to shoulder and curl over his collarbone without touching the neck, nothing that would show outside the shirt's parameters. His chest is a canvas. He must've waxed it, Kris thinks, but that's really, really not the point right now, because _there's a snake biting Adam's nipple_. Its gold-and-green body is coiled on his belly and sternum, one shining loop circling the other nipple, the tip of the tail kissing Adam's hip. It's easy to see; the jeans are helpfully low. His arms are equally lush, if decidedly less toxic: vines and knotted roots, leaves layered like jeweled feathers, a gold band of hieroglyphs around one bicep, black thorns.

"Holy shit," Kris says. It comes out a little breathy, so he tries again, but ends up with a shaky laugh. "Holy shit, Adam. Is that— It’s not for real, right?"

"Temporary ink," Adam says. He holds out his arms, rotating slightly to better show off the paint job. "I know a guy who knows a guy? Well, actually it’s more like the company sponsors a guy who has the keys to the gallery of another guy who paints people. It’s some sort of reincarnated graffiti wave."

"You look amazing," Kris says simply. It’s true. The only reason he isn’t mutely staring is because it’s hard to decide where to stare first, the vivid chest or the brilliant arms. All that skin…

"—like Kris. Right? Hey, Kris?"

Jensen. Drinks. Work. Right. "Right. Sorry, Jensen, just give me—that was two tonics and a Corona, got it. Adam, I got yours already."

"What?" Adam asks, and then laughs his butt off at the Mott’s "00% Grape! juice box.

Kris makes the drinks on auto pilot. It’s gratifying to realize that he can do that now, can put lime to rim without turning a cocktail into a brutalized alcoholic slushy. His hands must be as nimble as his feet once were; it’s an interesting reversal. He finishes assembling the drinks while Jensen and Adam gossip in a casual manner that’s a profound insult to the fact that they’re standing close and are kind of illegally attractive.

"Thanks, sunshine." Jensen pecks Kris' cheek—he smells like moisturizer and sweat—and props his tray, bicep attractively tightened by the angle. "Adam, later."

"Mm," Adam says, suddenly completely disinterested. Jensen walks off without noticing, but Kris wonders at the sudden coolness.

"Did he tell you bad news or something?"

"He couldn’t have. I don’t have any room for more bad news, we’ve reached standing room only in that department." He picks up his juice box and sucks noisily. "This is nice. Can I get one on the rocks?"

"As long as you don’t get crazy and ask for a bendy straw," Kris says. "What’s the bad news?"

"Hmm?" Adam’s eyes roam over the club, half turned away.

"You said no more bad news," Kris says. You have to be tenacious with Adam. "What’s the other bad news?"

"Who cares?" Adam says. "I’ve told you, it’s all very blah, blah, blah. I want more juice."

"They said you were being bought out," Kris blurts out. His face ignites, and it’s only worse when Adam turns to look at him, curious and calm. "On the website, on the _Wall Street_ website. It came up when I Googled you. It said your company was streamlining. It sounded kind of bad."

 _Fiscal disclosure. Board restructuring._ Kris had read the words without understanding, skimming for the urgency and unpleasantness beneath the text. It had all sounded very critical, with money being mentioned in outrageous, agonizing amounts.

"It’s only work," Adam says after a moment. He sucks hard, the juice box compressing then popping when he releases the straw. "Why aren’t you wearing a costume?"

"Can they do that to you? Force you out even though it’s your company?" Kris asks. He scrambles for points from the article, but can only remember quotes from movies. It’s amazing, really, how useless his education feels sometimes. "Aren’t you, like, the majority shareholder? They can’t take anything away from you, can they?"

For a moment, he thinks Adam isn’t going to answer him. He clearly isn’t enjoying the conversation, but Kris can’t drop it. It doesn’t matter that trying to talk _business_ with Adam makes him feel like a stupid kid; the tiredness at the corners of Adam’s mouth, the buildup over the past few weeks…none of it is something Kris can leave alone.

He makes one last ditch effort to do it, though. "If you don’t want to talk about it…."

"No, not really," Adam says. Then he smiles and taps his empty box against the bottle in Kris’ hands. "But that’s because I’ve been doing nothing but talking about it for weeks. First cajoling, then warning. We’re down to thinly veiled threats at this point, and that’s not going to last long. You know what the worst part is, though? Talking is as far as it’s going to get. That pile of geezers is going to huff and whine, but in the end it’s just posturing. I make the company way too much money to ever be set aside. They don’t like admitting their cash comes from a kid in make-up, so they holler to show they can." He lets go of the box. "Nothing but talk. Pussies. _Harvard_ pussies."

"But that’s good, isn’t it?" Kris says. "It means you’re not in any real danger."

"Not while I’m in control," Adam says. He taps a printed nail on the box top and sighs. "Kris, please. Let’s not, okay? If we talk about this, then I’ll have to watch what I say, and…and I’m really tired of having to watch what I say."

Oh, Kris thinks. Oh. He remembers control. Three hours at the barre is control. Rolling out your ankle is control.

Control is keeping yourself together when you deserve a chance to come apart.

The strobe light flashes across Adam’s face, so strangely bare in comparison to the rest of him tonight, and Kris makes his decision. It’s the worst decision, of course, not only because Jared will rightfully eviscerate him after he notices Kris left him running the bar solo.

"We’ve got ten minutes," Kris says. He sneaks a quick look around, but nobody is watching them...

"Hello," Adams says, when Kris comes around the bar. "Are we leaving?"

"No," Kris says. His face is flushed, damp. He’s nervous, and it’s amazing. "We’re going to a private room."

"What?" Adam says. "Kris, what’s going on?"

"I’m about to give my first lap dance," Kris says.

****

+x+x+x+

It doesn’t go as planned.

****

+x+x+x+

"The good news," Brady says, "is that you don’t have a concussion."

"The bad?" Kris asks.

"Cheeks already has this up on Facebook." Brady’s smile is a wince. "There are three thousand hits."

"Yeah, that sounds about right." Kris turns to Adam. "I’m really, _really_ sorry about this."

"If you apologize one more time, I’m going to start taking it personally," Adam says. He shifts the icepack, a dish towel full of cubes rescued from an alcoholic demise, to better cradle the back of his head. "None of this was your fault, okay? It was an accident. A regular, shameful, ego-crippling accident."

"I’m not trying to rub salt into an open head wound, but how exactly did this happen?" Brady asks. "I mean, the role reversal thing, not the actual, you know, fall. I get the fall; Cheeks put up some diagrams."

"I…." Kris looks around the dressing room, but while it’s fortunately empty of witnesses, it also lacks sufficiently blunt objects to hammer him out of his misery.

"Economics," Adam says.

"What?" Brady says.

"It was basic economics," Adam says. "I didn’t have anything smaller than a fifty on me, and Kris didn’t have anything to break it. I wasn’t going to beg for a freebie, so…." He looks at Brady expectantly.

"So…you gave Kris a lap dance instead?" Brady says.

"I tried."

"He did," Kris says. "Then he fell off my lap."

"He has very precarious knees," Adam says.

"You know," Brady says. "Cheeks may be right about you two."

****

+x+x+x+

They end up eating corn on the cob in the middle of a crowded lot, just another weird addition to the mob of costumes and cheap beer. The corn is grilled to the point of jerky, jammed onto a stick, and drowned in lime-spiked mayonnaise, rolled in crumbly cheese, and sprinkled with lime juice and pepper. It's searing and creamy, salty and spicy, and so unpretentiously good that Kris wants to build a house with it and _never leave_.

He’s licking lime salt off his fingers when Adam says, "Hey, are you going to see the Rothko thing?"

"There’s a thing?"

"Mm," Adam nods, lips pulled back to nip his corn without burning something off. He wheezes a little, trying to cool his mouthful before speaking again. "At MOCA. They’re bringing over the Seagram murals."

"The what?"

"The Seagram murals. Rothko was originally hired to create murals for the Four Seasons restaurant."

Kris’ infrequent brushes with luxury in New York went beyond cafeteria food, but never so far as the Four Seasons. Still, the idea of Rothko, _his_ Rothko, decorating a room for crab cakes and salmon confit is hard to swallow. Adam laughs at the look on his face, the rich bastard, and steals the opportunity to rub his cob against Kris’, stealing mayonnaise.

"You need to let me buy you a computer, so you can start Wiki’ing this stuff," he says. "But, yeah, it’s true. Rothko got commissioned for thirty-five grand to paint some murals for the restaurant in the late fifties. Apparently, he originally thought the paintings were going to be in the lobby, not the dining room, and when he found out otherwise he—I love this—he said he was going to paint something that would ruin the appetite of every son of a bitch who would ever eat in that room. I’m starting to really see why you like the guy, by the way," Adam adds, stepping aside to avoid Kris’ automatic kick. "Anyway, he cranked out something like thirty canvases, all red and…apocalyptic. Vivid stuff. Then one night he and his wife actually went to eat at the restaurant and, _bam_ , major change of heart. He decided he didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of being disturbed; he returned the money and kept the art. Ended up donating it to a couple of different museums for their permanent collections. The ones coming here are from London."

"When are they arriving?" Kris asks.

"December, I think?" Adam says, frowning. "My secretary sneaked in an invitation for the opening into my morning paperwork."

"Are you going?"

"That depends," Adam says. "Is someone going to come along and save me from the tearful pleas of the museum directors? Because their tears stain my soul, Kris. My _soul_."

"I’m sure your dry cleaning could handle it," Kris says.

"Likely," Adam agrees. "But you should come anyway. There’s going to be a mass of well-dressed, educated people being extraordinarily nice to me. Someone has to show up to tell them about the ruined socks or how I cracked my skull trying to earn a twenty with my groin. Kris, these people fear and respect me. Are you honestly going to let them keep doing that?"

"The thought is unthinkable," Kris says.

"So you’ll come?"

"I don’t know." Kris busies himself with his corn, peeling off stray bits of husk stuck on the handle. "That’s the holidays, you know? I don’t know where I’ll be right around then."

"Right," Adam says, crunching his own corn.

"I’m lousy around the holidays," Kris adds, out of some brand of unnamed, alien guilt. "You really don’t want me in a room with people you actually associate with in the daylight."

"Kris, when it comes to those sorts of rooms, there is nothing I wouldn’t pitch out the window in favor of—" Adam waves a hand at the crowd, the delicious smoke, the grills, the corn, Kri—the people, the faded parking lot stripes,"—this."

"Oh," Kris says.

Adam gives him a glance, wordless and amused, suddenly looking so freakishly patient that Kris’ stomach flips.

"The exhibit will be in town for a few months, I think. We could go after the holidays, buy you some new postcards," Adam says. A stray breeze ruffles the loose tail of his deceptive shirt. "If you think you could find the room for them."

Kris thinks he could try.

**X+x+x+x+X**


	4. Chapter 4

****

+x+x+x+

__

"There are three steps you have to complete to become a professional dancer: learn to dance, learn to perform, and learn how to cope with injuries." **~D. Gere**  


****

Kris celebrates Thanksgiving two days early in a Russian karaoke club with a table full of strippers and a lot of pink vodka. The place isn’t fit for a czar, but there’s a fat samovar squatting behind the bar; it reminds Kris of his first Intermediate class teacher, Madame Karasik. There are no real windows, and the dance floor is tiny, yet there’s a cheer about the place regardless.

But really, a _lot_ of vodka.

"You have amazing tits," Brad informs the aggressively dyed blond waiting in line for the bathroom. "I’m— Seriously, I’m not into packaging above the waist, okay, but those puppies are sweet. Kris, tell her. Tell her the puppies are sweet."

"He’s drunk," Kris says. "And gay, I swear."

"How gay?" says the blond.

"Enough to marry the guy," Kris says, and tows Brad back to their rough-skinned table, where they order squishy, juicy _pelmeni_ and smoky lamb checkered with grill marks, along with what looks like a pint of half-sour pickles and cold mushroom salad. Kris is on his third shot of the house vodka, skimming a sip of each glass before passing it off to anybody else at the table willing to finish it. (Translation: Johnny, Johnny, and Johnny.) They spoon soft potatoes and stewed chicken out of little clay pots, roll pearly orange caviar into soft _blinis_.

It’s not LA food, not the sort of thing you eat to endure a Californian fall, but it’s the right sort of meal to share with energetic people. It goes well with the stuttering karaoke and the laughter, the toasts. The toasts.

"To paychecks," Brad says, swaying ever so slightly. Brady keeps an arm looped around his hips. "They get ‘em, they cash ‘em, we keep ‘em, amen!"

A stuttering cheer passes around the table, and Johnny raises his shot glass to toast "people who don’t give a fuck about correct change." The tiny glass is as full as it has been every time Kris remembered to notice, even though he’s seen Johnny empty it each time he looks. Then again, this club is one of Johnny’s favorite spots, apparently.

"To good company," he says. He raises his own glass—okay, it’s beer—and speaks louder, trying to climb over the energetic rendition of _Livin’ La Vida Loca_. "To having friends—"

"—in low places," Brad finishes. He reaches across the table, still steadied by Brady’s hold, and clicks his glass against Kris’ bottle. "Amen."

"That’s not what I was going to say," Kris says, smiling a little. Brad is wearing a shirt with deliberately savaged sleeves, their rough tears held together with jeweled pins. There’s some leftover bronzer from his last set on his neck. "I was going to say something nice."

"I know." Brad grimaces. "That’s exactly why I stopped you. You don’t get to say nice things when you’re about to abandon us. It sets up false expectations. It’s _unkind_."

"You’re heading somewhere for the holiday gorging?" Brady asks. He’s wearing a t-shirt and jeans, clean and presentable to the point of ironic. If not for the arm around his husband, it’d be impossible to ever pair the two together.

"Yeah," Kris says. "Arkansas. Going to do the family thing for the weekend. I can’t really stay longer than that," he adds hurriedly.

"That sucks," Brady says. Kris appreciates the sympathy, even if Brady is missing the point completely.

"It does suck," Brad agrees. "He’s going to be drinking moonshine in the barn while I have to put up with Adam’s whining. It’s going to be horrid; I’m going to have to microwave my phone."

"Adam’s in Hong Kong," Kris says. "He won’t be back until the middle of next week at least. They’ve had some problems with the Hemsworth-Stocker merger." He tries to ignore the incredulous looks. "What, it was on the news."

"That in no way makes your weird little relationship any less weird," Brad says. He pats Brady’s arm. "Ease up, hubby. I want to dance."

Brady throws a momentarily panicked look in Kris’ direction, but loosens the arm and doesn’t fight being pulled onto the claustrophobic dance floor. They sandwich in between a middle-aged couple swaying energetically and a trio of college girls whipping their arms in the air. Brady is, admittedly, a hideous dancer, and Brad is visibly too vodka-infused to spell rhythm, let alone show any, but watching the two of them bobble together is…nice.

 

****

+x+x+x+

Adam explained the time difference between LA and Hong Kong, but Kris is about three shots and two beers past the reach of mathematics when he gets home. The responsible thing to do is to wait and call tomorrow to wish Adam a proper Thanksgiving. But tomorrow is settled with cab rides and plane flights, and the inescapable case of nerves Kris has been nursing since he bought the ticket. Calling on Thanksgiving itself feels even worse in his head.

He compromises by texting: _careful with the stuffing, check 4 nuts! Happy t-day!_

Then he turns off his phone. To conserve the battery, he reasons. It’s a good excuse.

****

+x+x+x+

"Where are you?"

"First let’s try 'good morning,'" Kris says. "Or good afternoon. What time is it over there, anyway?"

"I haven’t a clue, I lost my watch on the plane. It’s the third time, too." Adam sounds keyed up and a little crazy, which is usually a good sign that he hasn’t slept, or at least hasn’t slept in the right time zone.

"Wait, where are you?" Kris frowns at his Cinnabon cup. "Are you back in LA already?"

Adam makes a noncommittal hum. "It’s an in-progress thing. Also, I asked first."

"LAX," Kris says. "Regretting the cheap coffee. Waiting to board. I was about to turn off my phone actually. You’ve got spooky timing."

"Lucky me," Adam says. There’s an odd little pause. "So you’re all set to go? Bags checked, passport read, etcetera and etcetera?"

"Absolutely," Kris says cheerfully. "Hey, they’re starting to let people in. I’ll try to call you when I land, okay? Go sleep off the jetlag."

The odd little pause pops up again. Adam must be exhausted.

"Adam?" Kris says. "Everything okay?"

"You tell me," says a voice behind Kris.

Kris’ throat feels cold when he swallows, tasting sour caffeine on his gums. He turns around to see Adam in a suit like fresh laundry and an expression Kris doesn’t how to read.

They stare at each other, Adam standing and Kris sitting, LAX noise brewing around them.

"Let me guess," Kris says finally. "You own shares in the airport. Or the airline. Or you hacked my phone’s GPS."

"Not my market of experience," Adam says. He puts both hands in his trouser pockets, casual as anything. "I had your ticket upgraded to first class. They were supposed to ping me when you checked in."

"Ah," Kris says. "Thanks, I guess."

"It was supposed to be a surprise."

Kris nods. "I’m sure it would’ve been."

After a moment, Adam sits down beside him and takes Kris’ coffee out of his hand. He scowls at it, but takes a sip.

"This is disgusting," he says. "I can see why you regretted buying this. I regret you buying this."

"I’ve been here since five. It didn’t seem so awful then."

"Hmm," Adam says and takes another swallow. "So," he says after a few minutes. He puts the cup down between them. "You’re not on the plane."

"No," Kris says.

"Okay," Adam says. He drums his fingers against his knee. His nails are clear and polished. "Okay, then."

Kris picks up the nearly empty coffee cup and stands up, heading for the trash can a few steps away. When he comes back, Adam is looking at him. He doesn’t look like he has questions, but that doesn’t mean much with Adam.

"Breakfast?" Adam says.

****

+x+x+x+

"I couldn’t," Kris says.

Adam looks up, mouth working through his last bite, but eyebrows eloquent: _yes? Go on._

"It wasn’t like— I didn’t have a panic attack or anything," Kris says. "I just got there and couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get in the stupid line to get on the plane."

Adam swallows. "Luggage?"

"I only had a carry on," Kris says. He grimaces a little; it sounds like subconscious planning. "It was only going to be a few days; I didn’t need much."

"You never do," Adam says easily. Kris wants to find condemnation or censure in the statement, but it’s too smooth, too relaxed. Plus, it’s hard to feel condemned by a man sliding strawberries onto your toast.

"You can trade in the ticket for a later flight," Adam says.

"I don’t think it works like that," Kris says. Adam gives him a look. "I’m not letting you buy my ticket, either."

"Please, as if it’d cost money. I have enough flyer miles to transplant half the city to Melbourne," Adam says. "Shipping you off to the Midwest wouldn’t even dent it."

"I don’t think it would help," Kris says quietly. He surprises himself by adding, "But thanks."

****

+x+x+x+

Adam has the habit of marking his territory by making a complete and utter mess wherever he goes. Kris has been a firsthand witness to the profound breadth of this skill. Aside from being actively banned from Idol’s dressing room, he manages to reorganize the contents of Kris’ bathroom/kitchen/bedroom every time he visits. It’s impressive, considering that Kris’ bedroom is a bed—okay, futon—in a room and nothing else, and Adam has no business visiting it in the first place.

"You want something to drink?" Adam says. He throws his jacket on the couch, misses, and walks towards his kitchen with no sign of noticing.

Kris picks up the jacket and hangs it up. "Juice?"

"Sure." Vague domestic sounds trickle into the living room: faucet running, cabinet doors opening, the clink of glass, the fridge door opening. "I’ve got, um, all the colors of the fruit rainbow."

"Just nothing green," Kris says.

Adam comes back with two glasses, one orange and one red. He’s barefoot, which means there are probably socks in the salad spinner or the sink. Kris makes a mental note to check later, accepting his glass—red, smells like cranberry—and plopping down on the couch. Adam falls down next to him, sliding down like his spine is gravy.

Kris taps his glass with his own. "Happy almost-Thanksgiving."

"Hmm," Adam hums. His eyes are half closed, shoulders loose and knees apart, but Kris knows he won’t surrender just yet. Adam’s jetlag is nearly Catholic in its complexity. He rolls his neck against the plush couch back to blink hazily at Kris. "Hello."

Kris smiles. "Hi."

"I forgot to say hello before, at the airport." His eyes close a sixteenth of an inch further. "So, hello."

"Your manners are a credit to civilization," Kris says and takes Adam’s untouched glass out of his hand. The couch’s dry cleaning probably costs more than New Jersey. Adam makes a soft grumble but doesn’t protest. Instead, he takes the fact that Kris’ hands are occupied as an opportunity to swing his bare feet into Kris’ lap. It’s cheating, and they both know it.

"What, did you walk all the way back from China?" Kris grumbles. He takes a sip from Adam’s glass: pure orange juice, of course, but he has to award Adam points for effort. "You get that this is silly, right? Especially since everyone here is barred from serving you anything remotely alcoholic on pain of Brad."

And Kris, but mentioning that outright may give Adam...ideas.

"But I’d make such a hot breakfast alcoholic," Adam says, eyes happily shut. "Like Hemingway."

"Yeah, let’s go with no." Kris sets down the glasses on the side table with a twinge of guilt, resisting the urge to press the cool glass to Adam’s soles.

"You should crash here," Adam says suddenly, apropos of nothing. He cracks one blue eye open, squinting at Kris.

"It’s not even two in the afternoon," Kris says.

Adam’s shrug is dampened by the couch cushions. "So? Give me a few hours to evolve back into human, and then we’ll go have dinner at…well, it’s a new place. You’ll love it; they have clams. Amazing clams. We’ll eat some clams, you’ll sleep over, and tomorrow we’ll have Thanksgiving dinner."

"Don’t you have plans?" Kris asks, a little desperate.

"Yes, and this is them., He settles into the cushions, wiggling upward until his neck is better supported against the couch arm, and gives Kris a frank assessment. "What’s the big deal?"

"It’s Thanksgiving," Kris says.

"Uh-huh," Adam says.

"Don’t you have family stuff?"

"Absolutely not, thank God," Adam says. "Mom’s remodeling a villa in Tuscany. Dad’s in France. Neal— Okay, I honestly have no idea where he is. Probably in a cornfield rallying turkeys and trying to give out smallpox blankets to the local senator. Did I ever tell you about the time he boycotted St. Patrick? The saint, not the day."

"You’re Irish?"

"About as much as French is Italian." Adam twists his foot, prodding Kris’ stomach. "Come on, don’t be lame. Sleepover, support my gluttony, etcetera and etcetera. It’ll be fun." He adds, "Come on, don’t get weird about it. Thanksgiving dinner doesn’t count as a date dinner. It’s friendly. There’s pie! Pie is the friendliest food item."

"Wait," Kris says. "You can cook?"

****

+x+x+x+

It’s the worst dinner of Kris’ life.

More specifically, it’s the worst half-a-plate of Kris’ life, because that’s as far as he gets before his throat closes in hysterical surrender.

It’s not enough that the sweet potatoes are stiff and chunky, alternating between charred bits and raw chunks with no sign of anything whipped in between, the whole mess mercifully suffocated by marshmallow fluff. Kris eventually identifies the green beans by their stringy stems. His mind shuts down at the first taste of the compressed sawdust that Adam assures him is in fact cornbread.

And then there’s…the pie.

There’s no telling what kind of pie it is. Color, smell, texture—none of these actually register past the sight of the swamp-like substance Adam grimly brings to the table.

Kris has peeled bandages off his toes with chips of nail attached; he will not be cowed by pie. Resolutely, Kris picks up his fork.

Adam stays his hand, oven mitt covering the whole of Kris’ hand and fork.

"Oh, thank God," Kris says.

****

+x+x+x+

"It’s not that I don’t want to see them, or that I don’t miss them," Kris says. "I do, for both of those. I just — I’m just not really used to being with them."

"Because of New York?" Adam asks.

Kris nods. "Yeah, but not the way you might be thinking. I lived in New York— I got there pretty young. I started school there when I was thirteen, did I ever tell you?"

"You didn’t, actually. But, thirteen? Wow."

"Just a few months shy of my birthday. It was pretty common in the school; I mean, I wasn’t even close to the youngest who had moved to attend. My mom came with me. She lived with me until I was sixteen. After that I got—" Kris stumbles over saying 'contracts,' swallows it back down with a pull of juice. "I got a special scholarship for the dormitory. Mom went back to Conway, and I, you know, stayed."

"That’s must’ve been something, being on your own."

"I guess? There was a lot of work—classes. I didn’t pay attention to much outside of that. I didn’t think I had to. It paid off in some ways, but the family side of things…I don’t know. I came home for the holidays, and there were phone calls, it wasn’t like I was ignoring them. But talking to them never actually felt like a conversation; we both just sat on opposite ends of the telephone line filling in the blanks. And then when I had to leave the school…it was really bad, then. I was an asshole for a long while to everyone at home. But to be fair, I’d had a lot of practice, what with how I treated everyone in New York. It was— I pretty much got myself excommunicated from every friendship and half-decent acquaintance I’d managed to have."

Katy had stuck by him the longest. She visited the hospital every day, even when Kris knew it was costing her rehearsal time, class time, earning her black marks on the artistic director’s records.

"I’m kind of messed up," Kris says finally. "But I’m better than I used to be, most days. There are still a lot of messy bits."

"Some of us don’t mind messy," Adam says. "A mess has growth potential."

"I’m not much of an investment, I think," Kris says, looking out the wide, blank window.

Only to startle at the feel of big, warm hands pressing on either side of his head. Kris lets Adam turn his face, haunted by the memory of how often he turned obediently with someone’s touch.

"Hey," Adam says. "Could we pause the witticisms for a while? All right? I have something fairly smart to say and I need you to listen to me." He waits for Kris’ nod, hands not letting go. "Good, here it is. You are…incredibly annoying. Exasperating, even. You’re stubborn; you’re moody; you can be the most God-awful tease in all of California. _California_ , Kris." He leans in, close and closer, until their foreheads are a push away from touching. "You’re amazing. Which is why I’m going to let you in on a major secret. You ready for it?"

The kiss is…soft. Open. Uncomplicated and unfussy as a breath. Kris doesn’t move his mouth under the pressure of Adam's, but he doesn’t pull back either, Adam’s eyes on his the whole time. Adam keeps his mouth half-pressed against his for a moment, as if resting.

"I promise you, Kris, one day…you’re going to be happy," Adam says. "I swear it."

****

+x+x+x+

Kris wakes up in a snow pile of warm linen and puffy comforter, hugging a pillow in a pillowcase big enough to stash a body. It takes him a slow, long minute to recognize the pear-cedar scent of the sheets as the weird perfume soap rinse Adam's crazy-exclusive laundry service uses to seduce its sheets. It takes him another minute to realize that Adam is sitting at the foot of the bed in his unreasonably silky pajamas, talking on a cellphone.

"Wha?" Kris' brain tries to supply. Adam wraps a hand around Kris' exposed ankle, stroking the nub of bone in a way that's either supposed to encourage quiet and patience, or melt a frontal lobe.

"Uh-huh, yes, I completely agree," Adam says. "Yes, that’s right. Thirty minutes, got it. No, God, don’t even think about— Thank _you_. Give them all a wave from me? Oh, absolutely. Goodbye. Oh, wait! Happy Thanksgiving!"

"It’s still Thanksgiving?" Kris asks when Adam puts the phone down on the bed. "Where?"

"I’m not sure," Adam says. "How drastic is the time difference between here and Arkansas?"

Which is when Kris notices that the phone on the bed is _his_ phone. "What?"

"Your mom says hello. Also, she thinks she knows what went wrong with the sweet potatoes."

"There was no going right with the sweet potatoes," Kris says automatically, right before the sheer horror of Adam’s announcement plunges into his veins. "Oh, God."

"You should call her later," Adam says. "I kind of promised you would."

"Oh, God."

"I think she liked me," Adam says. "I can’t remember the last time anybody's mom liked me. I can’t even remember the last time it came up."

"Please, please stop talking and let me begin filing this moment away as a hideous hallucination," Kris says, covering his face with his hands. "Possibly as an allergic reaction to the pie. Or an emerging brain tumor." He lowers his hands. "Did you call her?"

"No, she called you," Adam says. "Several times. I got worried." He looks affronted at Kris’ confusion. "What, it could’ve been a family emergency?"

"Then why didn’t you just wake me to answer the phone?"

"Because it could’ve been not an emergency, too," Adam says. "You don’t sleep half enough as it is."

"Do you understand the meaning of boundaries? At all?" Anger is better than caffeine, he thinks. Kris rips the covers off his legs and resists the completely justifiable urge to wrap them around Adam’s head or, better yet, his neck. He settles for stomping to the guest bathroom.

Adam follows.

Seriously. _Boundaries_.

"Your mom thinks you’re a waiter," Adam says.

Kris slams the door in his face.

****

+x+x+x+

"Well, he was very polite on the phone," she says. "That’s always reassuring for a parent to know when it comes to whose bed their firstborn is sleeping in."

"It wasn’t his bed!" Kris says. "It was the guest bedroom. He has two."

"Nothing wrong with well-equipped hospitality," Mama says starchily. "It’s a lot better than just sticking people in the basement on a foldout. I told him right off that he’d better find a place with an already-finished basement or attic. I don’t know what he’s thinking, looking at those tiny sunrooms for keeping guests in."

"He told you about the sunrooms? How long were you two talking?"

"Just a spell, and don’t you start sounding so scared, Kris. We both behaved ourselves. Like I said, he was nothing but well-mannered."

"It’s LA," Kris says. "They fake everything around here."

"Kristopher."

"Sorry, Mama."

"I’m sure," she says. "Now, tell me more about dinner. He put what exactly on the potatoes?"

****

+x+x+x+

Calendars be damned. Kris spends his real Thanksgiving perched atop a marble breakfast island, eating cereal out of the box, while a billionaire in pajamas takes directions on how to assemble the Allen family pie crust via speakerphone.

****

+x+x+x+

A week later, it all goes to hell.

****

+x+x+x+

Idol’s Thursdays are good nights, mostly because they’re busy—but not so busy as to leave a body count among the staff. Kris usually doesn’t mind the extra hours, even if they do leave him a little frayed and, if he's honest, a little bored.

Still, Kris is feeling pretty good until the Suit goes for his dick.

New York is the land of suits and socialites, but LA is about jeans and celebrities. Casual is not cheap, Brad explained; casual could be exclusive. That wasn’t to say, he went on, that suits were toxic to the LA scene, but they weren’t an automatic credit card to credibility, either. You couldn’t just trust a tie; you had to look for status details.

Like cuff holes. A typical off-the-rack suit, according to the Tao of Brad, has a row of buttons on the cuff which were simply sewed on; you can move them during alterations. A cut buttonhole, though, is custom tailoring.

The guy pawing at Kris’ junk has a suit decent enough to explain how he could afford to drown in Idol’s fourteen buck martinis, but there are a lot of things Kris won’t do for bigger tips. Volunteering for a sloppy, public handjob is definitely one of them.

"I just want to talk," the Suit slurs. "Just talk. You have an amazing mouth."

It’s so hilariously cliché that Kris momentarily forgets the semi-official protocol for such situations, which is to pour the closest drink over the drunk’s head (provided they already have his credit card on file). He’s ready to bop the idiot with his tray when said idiot shoves out of his chair—he’s taller than Kris, naturally—and plasters his sodden mouth to Kris’ chin.

Kris’ good mood sours to hell. Screw the tray; he’s going to ram his knee up the moron's—

And just as suddenly, the disgusting warmth is off his face, there’s a grunt, and the sound of crashing furniture. Kris stumbles back like a drunk himself, trying to process beyond the sudden release and Johnny’s _Poker Face_ sawing through his skull.

It’s Adam, of course. Adam, in his designer denim and molded shirt, hair swept back. He’s kneeling, one hand balled in the Suit’s shirt. The look on his face could splinter a glacier. Kris notes, momentarily detached, that he's never seen Adam in a suit. It’s all the more disconcerting when Adam pulls back his other hand and punches the guy in the face once, twice, thrice—

Kris grabs his hand before the fourth lands. He feels feverish, adrenaline copper-plating his tongue. The Suit's mouth is wet and red.

"Jesus," says someone behind Kris. He turns to see Jared, his eyes narrow and unimpressed. "Kris, what the hell is going on?"

"I," Kris starts. He still has one of Adam's hands, Adam isn't saying anything, and the Suit is trying to slur his way back into consciousness or possibly to shout for the cops. "I don't…."

"Get him out of here." Jared's voice is a low hiss. He shoves past them to the guy on the floor. " _Go_. Before someone takes more pictures. Take him out back."

_Shit._ Kris twists his grip on Adam's wrist and hauls both their asses toward the back of the club and out the back door. He tries not to think about cell phones or lawsuits, or the stain on Adam's right hand, his heavy rings.

The back parking lot is half full and quiet. When Kris can breathe again, he'll be thankful.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Are you having a mental breakdown? Are you drunk? High? What the hell did you think you were doing back there?" He's still holding Adam's wrist, his fingers cramping with tension.

"Disciplining a mutt," Adam says. "That asshole was assaulting you."

"He was a drunk who got hot in his pants, Adam. It happens all the time. In fact, it's kind of the point of this place."

Adam's eyes flash. "Oh, the hell it is. If crap like this is happening, Cass needs to hire more bouncers to keep order. They need to have people watching the floor as much as the door."

"They do. Either way, that’s not your call to make," Kris says. He lets go of Adam's hand.

Adam grabs it back. "Not yet."

"Adam, calm down."

"I'm calm," Adam says. "I’m fucking Zen."

"You're delusional," Kris says. "And what the hell is ‘not yet’ supposed to mean?"

There's a guilty hitch in Adam's face before the expression pulls smooth like a cloth. "I was thirty seconds away from cracking the guy's jaw; Cass would've had to pay me security fees." He smiles a little lighter. "From fill-in dancer to fill-in bouncer, my resume is growing."

"No," Kris says, "that's not what you meant."

Adam looks puzzled, curious: the perfect innocent.

"Don't do that."

Adam's face softens. "Sorry. I'm sorry, for all of that. I just—you shouldn't have to put up with that. With any of that."

"It's my job, Adam. It's not a big deal," Kris adds.

"It is!" Adam's frustration is an invisible rubber band keeping his shoulders in a tight line. "You're wasted here, Kris."

"Also not something that's part of your business," Kris says. "I'm starting to think we should make a chart to help you keep track."

"You know I don’t have anything against the club or the others, but…Kris, come on, you're not like them." His tone turns light, the same deceptive weight as when Adam bargains with street vendors or when Kris overhears him making casual threats over his phone. "I don't know who you're trying to fool, but you don't belong here."

Kris cuts him off before it gets uglier. "Okay, we're stopping right here. You're pissed and worked up, Adam. Go home, sleep it off, and we'll talk about something else in the morning."

But it's too late; Adam is worked up. Motivated. Righteous. His hand is too warm on Kris' skin. "Why are you always this damn eager to walk away from a tough conversation, Kris? You always make this so much more difficult."

"Make what difficult?" Kris snaps.

"I'm trying to help. I can help. Simon and I are nearly finished, we can start staffing by New Year's—"

"What are you talking about?" Kris says. Adam doesn't answer, and it's obvious even in the parking lot's cheery light that he realizes he shouldn't have spoken. "Adam, what are you talking about? How does Simon have anything to do with this?"

"Simon wants to expand into taking on another club—a nightclub. No stripping. Just dancing, a lot of bass, maybe a bar menu that's actually edible."

"Is that going to be your part in this? Designing the perfect post-martini sandwich?" Kris asks.

"I wouldn't mind getting a chance to try," Adam says. "I know what people want."

Kris pulls his hand out of Adam's grip; Adam lets him. "Simon already has Idol and Factor; he doesn't have the money to open another club." The realization curls open in his stomach, a rotten orange splitting bare. "But that wouldn't matter, would it? Not when he has you."

"It's a good investment," Adam says. "I know what I'm doing, Kris."

_Yes_ , Kris thinks painfully, _you do_. "Then why is this the first time I'm hearing about it?"

"I didn't realize I needed you to proofread my investment portfolio," Adam says.

"Oh, don't even — Don't even think about playing the affronted card. You've got no interest in sponsoring a club, and you hate dealing with real estate investments. You _told me_ you hate real estate investments. You can't even commit to buying enough property to have your own bathroom. And, what, suddenly you're into club management? Bullshit. I don't know why you're doing this—"

"The hell you don't," Adam says. "Fine, you want to call bullshit then let's do it quid pro quo. Yes, I'm fronting money for the club and I should've mentioned it to you. I didn't because I wanted to have the deal securely closed before I gave you options."

"Options," Kris repeats flatly.

"Nobody opens a club with a green staff," Adam says. "All the upper management for the club is going to come from the other clubs—at double the pay. Better benefits, too. This place is going to be head and shoulders above the others, and everything is going to reflect that. The decor budget, the bar…we'll have a live stage; Simon has good contacts."

"I'm not management," Kris says.

Adam makes a gesture of impatience. "You can get trained on the job, grow with the club. Do you remember Ro? She's signed on for a year to help things get off the ground; she'll train you up until you're ready to take the helm. Afterward, you could hire on some sidekicks. Get a little free time in the daylight. We could actually have breakfast that isn't dinner for once."

"Could _we_?" Kris says. "Aren't _we_ lucky. And what else could _we_ do? Come on, I'm curious. Tell me about _our_ plans for me."

"You know it's not like that," Adam says.

"No, actually I don't know. And from what you're saying, I wasn't supposed to know, not until, what? Until Simon fired me on your order?"

"Why not? I certainly pay the hell enough for it!" Adam snaps.

Everything in Kris goes very, very cold. "What?"

"It doesn’t matter if you only serve me one drink per night because I pay five times the rate for it," Adam says. "I always have, since the first time you handed me a glass."

"That was on the house," Kris says. "Why, why would you...?"

"I liked you," Adam says. "I wanted to talk to you and I'm rich. Considering the circumstances, buying your time didn't seem wrong. You said it yourself; it's your job."

"I can't believe you’re doing this again," Kris says. "It's like you have a learning disability or…or a death wish or something. I’m a bartender, Adam! You didn't have to rent me to have a conversation; you can just ask for a Coke refill!"

"And swallow it along with the thought of you grinding on some pervert's lap because you can't keep track of your water bill," Adam says savagely.

"I don’t _grind_."

"Why are you fighting me on this?" Adam explodes. "It’s just a job for fuck’s sake! It’s a job doing the same thing you supposedly enjoy doing now, but at a pay that allows you to buy some chairs for your miserable apartment to go with your goddamn cardboard box table. It’s a _good_ thing. It’s what people say _yes_ to. Why are you being such a goddamn mental case about this?"

Which is, of course, when Kris punches him in the mouth.

****

+x+x+x+

In the morning, Kris has three voicemails and seventeen texts on his phone.

Kris texts back _sorry_ , but doesn’t call back.

After a couple more days trying, neither does Adam.

****

+x+x+x+

Suddenly, it’s December.

In the back of his head, Kris thinks he somehow rationalized that it wouldn’t be so bad in sunny LA, not like it is—was—no, _is_ in New York. It’s seventy-freaking-two degrees outside; surely people can’t be thinking of reindeer and fat men in red fur suits. But, of course, Kris is wrong, and Christmas is everywhere. It’s on the radio; it’s on the TV; it’s in the online pop up ads; it’s in the green-and-red theme martinis; it’s sequined antlers on shirts; it’s Salvation Army kettles outside of sushi bars; it’s everyone at the club complaining about plane tickets and ugly sweaters and whether or not Cassidy will finally approve Johnny’s Jingle Balls number.

For a while, Kris deals with it pretty well. He stops going to the little market next to his apartment building because of holiday posters in the window and the carols squeaking behind the counter, but that’s okay, because Adam canvassed Kris’ whole neighborhood months ago for spots to get a bite. Unfortunately, going there alone makes Kris guilty and angry, and going to a regular McDonald’s makes him feel greasy and sad. In the end, Kris cuts out the issue altogether by simply eating less. God knows he’s used to skipping meals for the sake of stress; this is nothing.

He avoids the holiday martinis by not going out, and he avoids most of the holiday chatter by doing double shifts on the floor when not on stage and being a bit of a grouch to anyone and everyone. The last tactic isn’t exactly planned, but it _does_ keep the chatter at bay.

He deals with the lack of sleep by…not sleeping.

The point is, he’s dealing with it.

Then some goddamn sadist plays _Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy_ on the mall sound speakers, and Kris throws up in the Macy’s bed and bath section.

It’s almost ironic, and it’s definitely god-awful. Vomit is never a good time; it’s a hundred times worse on an empty stomach and three hours of sleep. His stomach feels inside out, organs tossed about like beans in a bowl. One of the salesladies, a taut fifty-year old in leather-striped jeans, gives him a moist paper towel to rub the worst of the reeking sweat off his face. He tries to breathe away from her face when he thanks her.

It’s not until he’s outside, shuffling towards the bus stop that Kris realizes _he’s not going to make it_. He’s not going to survive December; he can’t. He can’t. He’s a sick, sad little fuck who can’t cope with a rehashed jingle. He’s halfway to getting stabbed at work, his fridge is empty, and Kris honestly can’t remember what he did to his neck to make it feel this wooden. He can’t remember when he last did his laundry.

Kris thumbs the call button without thinking.

"Kris?"

"Hi," Kris says. It sounds gummy. "Hey."

"Hi," Adam says, a little carefully. Kris can’t really blame him—well, technically he can, because he has been, but blame feels like a horrific case of indigestion right now, and Kris’ stomach can’t handle any more grief; he’ll pop his kidney or something. Also, Adam is talking, and Kris is missing it.

"—figured you could use it for a laugh if nothing else. Everyone likes horoscopes, right? Even the people who hate horoscopes." Adam’s voice braves some wryness. "I was going to send you the ones from _The Onion_ instead, but they’re all about getting shot by kangaroos lately."

"I used to think they were a special kind of rabbit," Kris says. "When I was a kid, I was convinced that’s what they were. It made perfect sense to me. They all hop, right?"

"That’s the power of unambiguous PR," Adam says. "You get press for one thing and everyone starts thinking that’s the only thing you do."

Kris’ stomach twists violently then, a sick shiver running up his arm. He drops the phone and presses both forearms to his gut, breathes, trying to swallow without thinking about his throat. The nausea is a short pulse, but his hand is shaking when he picks up his phone.

"—is! Kris! Hello? Kris, answer me. Hello, hello?"

"Sorry, hey, sorry. I dropped the phone," Kris says. His tongue sticks to his teeth. "Listen, I just wanted to say thanks for the, the horoscopes. I have to go now. I’ll call you later, okay?"

"Kris, baby, what’s wrong? Are you okay? God, please, don’t hang up. Kris?"

"I’m okay," Kris says. _Okay_ sounds tiny in his ears. "I’m fine. We’ll talk later, all right? I have to go now. I’m fine."

"Kris," Adam says in the softest voice he’s ever shared. "Kris, are you crying?"

_No_ Kris says, except he doesn’t, he _can’t_ , because he’s choking on air outside in seventy-freaking-two degree sunshine.

Adam says, "I’m coming to get you."

****

+x+x+x+

Adam doesn’t explain much when they get on the plane, too busy plying Kris with chilled juice and teas that smell like spice bazaars and little almond cookies. The flight is long enough to justify dinner, balled up temari sushi and green tea brûlée. The sushi looks like a child's billiard set. Kris manages to chew through a bit of tuna and half a sweet prawn before he gives up.

The bed is square and very large, thick with green sheets.

_...ye merry, gentlemen, let nothing you dismay..._

He half-wakes once, dry mouthed and disoriented, needlessly cramped into a fetal position on the bed's broad plane. The cabin is dim, muted. Kris winds restlessly in the smooth sheets, lost until there's a warm hand settled on his forehead, a soft voice being kind, and the cool touch of glass at his mouth. He swallows mineral water, feels it prick his tongue but soothe his stomach.

"Do you need anything?" Adam whispers. Kris shakes his head and sinks back down into the pillows. He hears more than sees Adam set aside the now empty glass and hover near the bed without actually sitting down. Impulsively, Kris reaches into the air and finds Adam's hand. Their fingers curl together easily, automatic. The mattress barely shifts when Adam sits, then lays down. He's still wearing his suit. Kris is in a t-shirt and a borrowed pair of pajama pants.

"Where are we going?" Kris mumbles. His eyes are closing again, his body leaden and calm. He shifts onto his side, onto his "good" leg; Adam follows, knees tucking in behind Kris'. It would probably be very nice, if Kris were awake enough to enjoy it.

"Wonderland," Adam says. "Narnia. Eden. Shangri-La. Candyland." A spot of warm, damp pressure pushes at the back of Kris' neck, there and gone. "Get some rest, baby. I'll take care of everything."

****

+x+x+x+

Kris’ first thought is, _it’s like being on the moon_.

His second is that he’s fucking freezing.

Kris blinks sluggishly in the (evening? morning?) gloom, eyes and nose stinging in the frigid air. It’s a terrific cold, the kind of purebred chill that New York would be hard pressed to match and LA couldn't dream up. He wobbles slightly, stepping down the plane ladder; his legs are asleep, and the coat Adam stuffed him into is long…on Adam. On Kris, it’s a tent. Adam walks down the steps behind him in his shirtsleeves, herding Kris and his guilt onto the tarmac.

"Are you sure you don’t want your coat back?" Kris asks. He tries to shrug off the oversized sleeves—seriously, they’re gigantic; when did Adam grow gorilla arms? "You’re shivering. You’re vibrating."

"I’m shaky with excitement; this is what it looks like," Adam says and tugs the coat back into place on Kris’ shoulders. "I’m also surprisingly hardy. Like a lumberjack."

"You sulk like a six-year old when you have to shell your own peanuts," Kris says. "You're from California."

"So are you," Adam says smartly and starts in on the coat buttons. Kris makes the executive decision to ignore the indignity and looks around instead, surveying a vast plane of—nothing. No real trees, no bushes, nothing beyond the necessary tarmac and some turf that looks ironed flat. The airport terminal looks civilized, Kris thinks optimistically, but Adam is already tugging him toward the car. Because of course there’s a car. (At least it’s not a limo, Kris thinks.) The driver pops out to open the door. Adam nods kindly at him, an absentminded politeness, before ushering Kris inside where it’s warm and padded and, of course, there are drinks and foil-wrapped snacks. There’s also a neatly folded blanket that Adam briskly snaps open and proceeds to tuck around Kris’ legs.

They may have landed on the moon, but Kris has the definite sensation of being in Adam’s world.

The driver grins at them in the mirror. "Good to see you again, Mr. Lambert." His accent is unfamiliar, softer than Russian, but countries away from Spain or France. German, maybe? "Welcome back to—"

"Uh-uh," Adam cuts him off. "Don’t spoil the surprise."

Kris twists in his blanket cocoon to stare at him. "You’re kidding, right?"

Adam grins and reaches out to reaffirm a fold around Kris’ knees. "I told you, baby: Wonderland."

****

+x+x+x+

"So you’re where?"

"It’s…. It’s definitely not Brazil. Or Hawaii."

"So you have no idea where you are, is what you’re saying."

"Yep," Kris says.

"Kris?"

"Yeah?"

"It’s been two days."

"Yes, Brad, I know," Kris says. "I didn’t sleep through them completely."

In truth, he may have come close. Kris has vague memories of being bundled out of the capsule warmth of the car into the friendly warmth of a soft bed; the details are hazy. He has the horrific suspicion that Adam may have had to untie his shoes. Since then, he's been in bed more than he's been out of it, hampered by his own body and Adam both. The latter seems cheerfully dedicated to keeping Kris marooned, bringing him deliciously complex breakfast-lunches and rubbing his back in warm, narcotic circles.

"I’m just saying," Brad continues, "it’s been two days, and you literally have no idea where in the world a billionaire with the impulse control of a caffeinated lab rat has hijacked you to. How long before we receive a photo of you holding yesterday’s newspaper and missing an ear?"

"First off, there’s definitely something wrong with you," Kris says. "And secondly, Adam didn’t kidnap me. We’re on vacation. I’m calling you to officially activate my vacation time." Worry worms in. "I have that, right? Vacation time?"

"Yeah, yeah, Cass is legally bound to unclip your leash occasionally," Brad says. "It’s fine, no worries. I’ve already picked out your replacement. He’s young, he’s hot, he’s willing to do anything to keep his owner happy and financially sound, and he’s got hips like a randy matador."

"Don’t pimp your husband," Kris says.

"Bring me something nice as a souvenir and I’ll think about it," Brad offers grandly. "There are nice things around you, yes? He didn’t drag you to some kind of monastic Zen pit or anything? Kristopher, tell me you’re looking at nice things right now or I’m calling the cops."

Kris twists around to look out his window. The world outside is made of blue glass in the key of midnight, every edge of the mountains cut sharply into relief. If he lies back on his lagoon bed, he can just reach an angle from which to spy the tip of the mountain’s head. Mountains, actually.

Everything is covered in plush, startling, glowing _whiteness_.

Kris smiles. "I'll take you out for ice cream."

****

+x+x+x+

"The point of the mystery, Kris, is to enjoy the mystery." Adam corrals the straw in his smoothie with his lying, smarmy tongue. "Shish ish thaponsh."

"Are you having an allergic reaction?" Kris asks hopefully.

Adam spits out the straw. "I said, that’s the point. Of the mystery. Which you’re supposed to be enjoying."

"I’d be a lot calmer about enjoying the unknown if I knew what hemisphere we were in," Kris says. Adam makes a face at him and stretches slightly to poke Kris’ knee with his foot. Kris retaliates by catching an ankle and pressing his thumb directly to the insole, which has Adam writhing and spilling his juice all over his ridiculous, pretty, lightweight sweater. It’s hilarious for about thirty seconds, until Kris feels guilty about the sweater, and Adam notices, which leads to renewed threats of getting more clothes. They’ve been here two days, Kris has slept through most of it, and Adam has already managed to import-slash-purchase a winter wardrobe for them both.

"You have a problem," Kris tells him seriously.

"I think we need mittens," Adam says, and the conversation has no place to go from there. Kris pours another cup of chocolate. He's bound to figure this out eventually, and it'll turn out to be nothing stranger than Canada.

****

+x+x+x+

"Iceland."

Adam walks out of the bathroom—which is the size of a luxury bedroom but, never mind, focus, Allen—hands tying the belt of his robe more tightly around his waist. "What about it?"

"We're in Iceland," Kris says. "You. I. This is Iceland."

"Yep," Adam says. "Surprise. Who ratted, by the way? It was Jódís, right? Never trust a ski instructor with three scarves."

"I stole a map," Kris says. He ignores Adam's laugh of approval. "So, seriously, this is Iceland. I tell you I have a phobia of Christmas and you bring me to a place with actual reindeer."

"Technically, you haven't told me anything," Adam says, but his grin blindsides any of Kris' potential guilt or suspicion. "Whatever, this couldn't have happened sooner; I was bored dead waiting for you."

"You're a very strange man," Kris says.

"Luckily, my HMO covers that," Adam says. "Wanna go eat Rudolph? I know a place."

****

+x+x+x+

In a way, Kris has always wondered—briefly—what it would be like to give Adam free reign, or more specifically, what it would be like to give Adam's money free reign. He thought he had a front row seat with the real estate hunting, the soaring ceilings and handcrafted door knobs. He thought that, if invoked, Adam's wealth would translate into a sort of hyper exposure to luxury, an oversaturation of thousand-thread count textures. A crashing congestion of frills and pricey trimmings. A million-dollar migraine, sure, and Kris appreciated Adam keeping things relatively low-key to spare him that.

In Iceland, Kris figures out just how much of a drop that low was.

Kris is aware that time is money, work is money, space is money; what he never truly considered was that money can suspend these things as easily as it can order them forth, that at some point wealth stops being numerical and becomes simply an effect.

Adam's money isn't an avalanche, he realizes; it's the calm, smothering hush that follows, the perfect calm of the aftermath when every obstacle and feature has been smoothly buried.

Kris wakes up every morning (day? night?) in a king's bed. He eats things like albacore sashimi, or elk tenderloin with brandied cherries and cipollini onions, or fried duck eggs with truffle vinaigrette and tuna prosciutto, or rack of lamb crusted with dried olives, or chocolate molten whiskey cakes sour with Guinness ice cream and fluffy with Bailey's whipped cream, or slices of saffron-honey spiced brioche, or shots of _slivovitz_ , a Croatian plum brandy from the resort chef's personal stores, while wearing his pajamas. He showers in an arctic rain forest, a room of cool marble inlaid with pale, colored glass, a tiny pool built into the floor, the curved ceiling capable of synthesizing anything from a morning fog to a strong monsoon. His clothes are tailored and cozy, ranging from sheep-plush sweaters to space-age snowsuits to thin, unbreakable sunglasses. One time there's a suit, shiny as lead and old glass, and Adam does up every one of the thick, polished buttons, and holds Kris' wrist to his mouth when he's done with the cuffs, before they venture out to eat a long, detailed dinner in the private room of a small inn.

People don't live like this, someone once told Kris. That's reality, of course; people don't get swept half across the world. People don't sleep in beds the size of lakes.

There are only a few daylight hours this season, shorter than most of Kris' shifts at Idol; daytime has the feel of an elastic dusk, as if time is suspended. The mornings are black. The daylight they have, they spend recklessly and generously. They pet the small, sturdy local horses, hands lost in the heavy flax manes. One day, Adam gets directions to an unpronounceable little town nearby, and they drive for two hours to see the natural hot tub nestled in the mountains behind it. At the end of the road, they have to get out and trudge over a surreal landscape of lukewarm streams and geothermal steam blowing from holes in the ground. The little pool they find is barely the size of a bathtub, so they settle for dunking their hands until the fingers are revived. Adam loses a glove.

Adam buys him things and because officially renounced reality somewhere between walking on the moon and having a billionaire butter his toast, Kris lets him buy: traditional woolen sweaters, fermented shark meat, and twisted Icelandic doughnut, deliciously musty with anise, hot dogs made of lamb and topped with crunchy, deep-fried onions and brown mustard, fish jerky. Kris accepts a banana from a geothermal hot house with a bemused awe at his own attitude. He has the distinct suspicion he's not just quit standing his ground, he's sold the whole battlefield. To a man whose ultimate goal seems to be feed Kris an Icelanding lunch of whipped pancakes and pucks of chocolate cake in the middle of a dark, dark afternoon.

There are, Kris thinks, worse ways to yield.

New York is a stage; LA is a movie screen. Iceland is a canvas. There's no conventional beauty in the landscape; it's a giant empty stage. Kris is constantly startled by the near total lack of trees. But what is here, is here completely, in strong relief, like the core of Rothko's colors. Grass green as paint. Black volcanic beaches. Rock formations full of trolls. Peerless ice.

On the fifth day it rains, and Kris watches the water sheet sideways in a skewered weave against the chalet's big windows. It looks absolutely frigid. Kris, bare toes curl deeper into the thick, shaggy rug.

****

+x+x+x+

They sleep in the same bed. Adam's hand strokes slowly along Kris' thigh, tracing the scar line.

"I hate thinking about this," Adam says. Which, well, he's got a point; it's an ugly piece of—

"—happening to you," Adam finishes. "It makes me sick, sometimes, when I think of you bleeding in that fucking cab."

_Oh_ , Kris thinks.

"You didn't even know me then," Kris says gently. "I'd be just another loser slowing down traffic. It doesn't matter."

Adam makes a dry sound in his throat, and Kris unwraps an arm from around his shoulders to reach for the water glass. Before he can touch glass, though, Adam is flipping over and pulling Kris with him until suddenly Kris is on top, looking down at a face serious as court.

"You matter," Adam says. He's got one hand on Kris' back, the other on his neck; his palms are dry and hot, too hot. "You absolutely fucking matter, Kris."

He holds Kris' gaze, relentless. Kris has to nod, just to placate him, before Adam lets him go.

It takes Kris a while to fall back asleep.

****

+x+x+x+

One night (day? morning?), Adam stuffs Kris with salmon tarte flambée and strawberry ricotta, wraps two scarves (Kris sneezed, once) around Kris' neck and one around his eyes, and forbids their driver to speak in English for the whole duration of the ride.

"Once is a novelty, twice is a legal problem."

"Cranky," Adam says and makes him eat some candy.

****

+x+x+x+

When Kris was nine, he got picked to play a Toy Soldier in the visiting company’s production of _The Nutcracker_. The day of the first performance, he woke up with a fever, achy and quivering, and desperate to attend. He could never remember exactly what he said to make his argument, but somehow it was convincing (or simply loud) enough to have Momma fill him with aspirin, put him in the back seat of the car along with a pillow and a pile of blankets, and drive him to the theatre two towns over. In the dressing room, Kris said nothing of being sick, managing to struggle into the tight green jacket and red vest, the white pants with gold stripes, and hook the red "boots" spats over his ballet slippers. Hat in place, he staggered on stage and was immediately swallowed by the heat of the lights, the booming music, the flurry of the professional dancers— _real dancers_ —spiraling around him. Afterward, he fainted in the dressing room.

It was among the best moments of his life.

Standing ankle deep in crunchy snow while overhead the northern lights uncoil like a living Rothko, unending and wholly perfect, with Adam holding his hand?

A damn close second.

****

+x+x+x+

"So, um, I was thinking about dinner."

"Yeah?" Adam taps his iPad, not looking up. "You want to eat in or go off the reservation? I heard there’s a place in Reykjavik that does oyster tartare _and_ has the best cotton candy. We should investigate."

"No, I mean." Kris sits down on the couch, then reaches out and takes away the iPad. "Dinner. We should have dinner. When we go back."

"We already…do?" Adam’s mouth wrinkles in confusion. "Kris, I’m not following."

So much for smooth and easy. "I’m saying that when we get back, we…I mean, you…." Mayday, mayday! "You should have dinner with me. You should let me take you out to dinner."

"As a thank you," Adam says. But there’s a slim, hopeful question in his voice.

"It can be a thank you," Kris says. "Or it can be me taking you out. To dinner."

"Dinner," Adam says. "So you mean, like, dinner. _Dinner_ dinner."

"Yes?" Kris says. "I meant dinner as in, ah, _merde_." He puts his face in his hands, breathes out once, twice, looks back up. "Adam. Would you like to go out to dinner with me? Because I’d really like that, with you." He hands back the iPad.

Adam stares at the thin screen, frowning like he doesn’t recognize any of the icons.

"I mean, if you’re interested," Kris says. "I know it’s been a while since you asked, and you might not—" Adam waves his hand, still frowning. Kris stops talking and rests his hands on his knees. His mind is oddly blank.

"Yes," Adam says.

"Great," Kris says. "That’s…great." He drums his knees, then gets up. "So, cotton candy? I’m down with that."

"Yes," Adam says and stands, the iPad falling noiselessly to the carpet. Kris automatically starts to bend for it, but Adam’s arms are sliding around his waist, up his back, pulling. "Yes, Kris, you can take me out to dinner."

"But I’m paying," Kris says, and lets Adam pull them back down onto the couch.

****

+x+x+x+

Kris still has the northern lights and Adam’s kiss in his head when he slips out of bed that night. The bedroom is dark but not wholly black; the elegant matte slats guarding the windows are folded back, moonlight and snow alleviating the room’s dusk. He pads outside into the salon-styled living room, careful to close the bedroom door quietly, but definitively, behind him.

Whether it’s late or early makes no difference to the inflexibly polite operator, and his call is connected immediately.

It takes five rings, during which Kris can admit to sweating a little. He’s excited and nervous, and slightly scared. He’s almost wishing for the voice mail message when the line clicks and a groggy voice snaps, "What?"

Of course, it’s winter season and God-knows-what-o’clock. He’s a jerk, and she’s going to kill him. "Katy?"

There’s a pause, but she’s always been quick. Nobody really rests during the winter season. "Kris? Kris? Hello, Kris, are you there?"

"Yeah, I—" Kris’ tongue is blob of glue. "Hi, yeah, it’s me. Hi."

"Kris." It’s one word, cotton-soft,, but the sound of it manages to encapsulate years. Sixteen-hour days composed of company class, rehearsal, and shows. Eating bananas on the subway, hurrying to run an errand in the real world before heading back for company class. Crowding around the call sheet, desperately hoping. Being chased out of each other’s dressing room during the half-hour call. Curtain up, curtain down. Worrying about being promoted and worrying about running out of clean laundry. Pointe shoes, and Thera-Bands, and corn pads slipping out of dance bags. Water bottles and coffee cups tucked against mirrored walls. Arnica gel and bunions.

"Hi," Kris repeats. "I’m sorry, I’m— Did I wake you?"

"Absolutely," Katy says. "And if you think I’m mad about it, I’ll come all the way to La-La Land and kick your head." There’s a damp little hitch in her voice. "I can do that, you know."

"I know," Kris says. It comes out slightly wet, too.

"Kris?" Katy says. "Kris, please don’t hang up."

"I’m not," he says. "I wouldn’t," except of course he would, he has in the past. "I didn’t call for that. I just wanted to call and say hello."

"Hello, Kris," Katy says.

"Hello, Katy," Kris says.

"Hello," Katy says and it cracks a little, but then she laughs. Kris does too, because, what the heck, when did they all get so ridiculous? "Hello, Kris."

"Hi, Katy," he says. "How have you been?"

****

+x+x+x+

"Iceland," Kris says.

"What, for real? Like _Iceland_ Iceland? You’re kidding," Katy says.

"I know, right? It was unbelievable."

"Did you eat a reindeer?"

"What? No! God, what is wrong with you two? I don’t want to eat Rudolph. I saw the northern lights, though."

But the distraction is too little, too late. "Who’s ‘you two’?"

"Nobody," Kris says. "Just, you know, a friend."

"A sexy stripper friend?"

"No," he says. "Well, not really. He stripped at Idol once but it was a misunderstanding."

"Someone accidentally stripped at a strip club?" Katy says. "How would that even work? Did you accidentally tear his pants off or something?"

"A little," Kris says. Her laugh is a popping firework. "It was the eyeliner! It threw me off."

"Oh my God, I love you," she says.

Kris warms to his toes. "Shut up."

"You accidentally stripped your boyfriend," Katy says. "That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. That’s better than the tutu puke."

"It was Cale," he says.

"Screw Cale," she says.

"Um, aren’t you—"

"Shut up and tell me this guy’s name. This guy who strips accidentally and apparently— Wait, did he go with you to Iceland or did you go with him? Whatever, I don’t care, give me the name. Is he hot? Is he a surfer?"

"He’s got a complex about the sun," Kris says. "He has freckles."

"They have freckles in LA?"

"Never let Adam hear you say that; his complex will double."

" _Adam_ ," Katy says with relish. "You have an Adam."

He wants to tell her to shut up again, but, "Yeah. I kind of do."

"Is he nice?"

"He’s…." Kris searches for the word; there are a lot to choose from. "He’s unbelievable, sometimes. Even more so than Iceland."

"That’s…Kris, that’s great." The teasing is gone from her voice, only the warmth is left. "That’s really, really great."

"It kind of is," Kris says.

"Okay, I want pictures. I want tons and tons of pictures. I want, like, a catalogue. With footnotes. They can be dirty footnotes, preferably."

"Yeah, I’m thinking no," he says.

****

+x+x+x+

They talk for hours. The conversation is deeply unfocused, wandering all over the place: from the barre to the subway to the apartment Katy shares with Cale—"Ha! I knew it!" "Oh, shut up."—to that bistro with the terrible, cheap sandwiches and coffee to Idol to Coney Island to the PCH. There’s the pain of ripping off Band-Aids, but they’re old and mostly dry, coming off with little reluctance, pulling weakly before releasing. In all fairness, they’re only skimming the surface of each other’s lives, but it’s a type of healing nonetheless.

It’s not until they’re into the third hour that Kris asks, "Hey, do you remember the postcards?"

It’s been nearly two years since New York, the time compounded by drama and tragedy, but Katy is and forever will be Katy. "Of course I do. You still owe me letters. Lush, histrionic, poignant, amazing letters. Possibly with stickers."

"Gold stars are for runners up," Kris says. "But seriously, can I ask you something?"

"Absolutely."

"Why those ones?" he asks. "I mean, why him? Why Rothko? He didn’t have anything to do with dancers."

There’s a pause in the span of which he can see her: hard, bare legs and oversized t-shirt, long hair snarled, serious eyes and small mouth, tapping her colorless toes in thought.

"They were very quiet pictures," she finally says. "But somehow they were also so, so big, you know? They made me think of windows looking out into something, the sort of something that could be anything. I was so completely scared at the thought of you leaving, of what was going to happen to you, what you were going to do, and I couldn’t stand the idea of you going away without something. And here were these little pictures that didn’t seem to be about anything in particular, no models or Victorian picnics or whatever, just all these colors being beautiful. I thought…I thought it’d be great, if my best friend could have something so beautiful."

"We should trade," Kris says after a moment. "I’ll send you the postcards, and you can send me pictures. Of everyone. And of rehearsals and the new costumes—everything."

"When are there ever new costumes?" she says. "Honestly? I…I was going to try and send you something after the holidays. We were talking about future New Year's resolutions one night for some drunken reason and I just thought… _Kris_. I want to talk about this stuff with Kris. I just thought maybe, you know? Maybe it’d be okay."

"It’s okay," he says. "It’s…a lot of okay." He wipes his eyes. "I love you, too, you know that, right? That’s a permanent thing."

"It’d better be," she says, a little damp. "Shoot, I’m soggy again. You’re lucky I washed off my makeup last night, or I’d bill you for laundering my sheets."

"No biggie, you should see some of my tips." Katy snorts. "Where was this resolution manifesting, a party at someone’s house?"

"Yeah, it was a couple of months ago. We had this gala thing at the end of October, completely nuts. The photos had to be burned. We had a visiting choreographer; the party was at his place. He just got the sponsorship confirmed for this whole run of work they’re going to be starting soon. It’s all this crazy interpretive stuff, modern to the point of pain. I don’t think he’s writing for anyone with knees." Kris makes a noise of experienced sympathy. "I know, I know. But it’s pretty interesting, and the sets are going to be fantastic. They’ve been getting really revved up about it, you know how it is when a program actually has money."

"I remember," Kris says. "Did they make you do butt-kissing with the fund raisers trying to get it? I seriously don’t miss that part, for the record."

"That’s the best part," Katy says. "We didn’t even have to beg this time. This guy—his name is Gerard, by the way, total sweetheart—is part of an artistic collective or something, and they suddenly got a major boost from their sponsor. Specifically for the project with our company. Can you believe that? They even threw us this huge, awesome party with full catering and everything. It was insane. I bet half the things on the menu don’t even exist in your LA."

"Brave words," Kris says. "Careful I don’t make you eat them."

"I see what you did there and am not impressed," Katy says. "But, anyway I’m serious; the food was incredible. There were these teeny-tiny skinny tortillas, they were like cigarettes almost. They were rolled around the craziest stuff. Like corn and coffee mayonnaise, can you believe it?"

"I can actually," Kris grins. "This one time, with Adam, there—"

"And the chocolates," Katy exhales. Kris’ grin widens: dancers and sweets, the forbidden love affair. "Jesus Christ, Kris, those chocolates. It was candy from Mars, I’m telling you. I actually broke down and tried to ask where they got them from. Insane, I know; I figured they cost a hundred bucks a pop, but they were just that good."

"Did you rent out your soul for a box?"

"I wish," Katy says. "But apparently they’re custom made for the company. I don’t mean the caterer, but the actual business company or whatever; they’re impossible to get otherwise. It’s so pathetic; I actually kept the wrappers to prolong my pain. Though in my, again pathetic, defense, the wrappers are pretty funky. The design, it looks like hieroglyphs. You’d love it. I’ll mail you one next time, alright? Kris? Hey, Kris? Are you there? Kris?"

****

+x+x+x+

"I need you to do something for me," Kris says when Adam walks out of the bedroom, rumpled and gorgeous. "Please."

Adam’s smile is automatic. "Sure, baby. Anything."

"I need you to...I need you to tell me the truth."

"Kris?"

Kris tries to brace himself, tries to be cool steel, but the air isn’t cooperating; he’s lightheaded and his back is sweating. "That night at Idol, when I thought you were, you know."

"There to take off my pants in a professional capacity," Adam says helpfully.

"You were also supposed to serve drinks, we just didn't trust you with a tray." The humor is weak. "That was the first time we met, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Adam says.

"Oh," Kris says. "Okay." He knows he should follow up, but his nerves are bundled too tight. "I don’t believe you."

The expression on Adam’s face is heartbreaking.

And guilty.

"It wasn't like what you're thinking," Adam says. "I didn't know who you were. I couldn't even remember your name. I just knew your face, a little. Neal lives in New York most of the time, and I visit him around the holidays sometimes, so does Mom. We're terrible at doing the holidays, and there are typically a hundred bullshit events staged then, charity dinners and shows, and…." He looks sick. "There was a party. Some of the people were dancers. Ballet."

"We used to call them the banana-nut dinners," Kris says. "It was—it's a joke; you have to go if you're a girl still stuck doing the _Nutcracker_ and aren't important enough to bail, but the guys have to go because there are too many girls otherwise. I went sometimes. I went the night...."

"When you had the accident. I heard about it later. Neil's a pretentious twat in the mornings, he was reading the _Times_ ' Arts blog; he saw it. He remembered I wanted to meet you."

"You never did." He would've remembered meeting Adam, even then.

"No, not that night. I got cornered near the canapés by a senator. By the time I chewed my way free, you'd left the party." There’s an awful pause. Adam steps forward, eyes so sincere that it hurts, like something inside is being physically torn off the bone. "Baby, I wish more than anything that I could've met you earlier. I'd never let something like that happen to you."

"You really don't get it, do you?" Kris says with quiet, awful wonder. "You think this just happened to me, that this was all just one big accident? I danced since I was seven years old, Adam. You think growing up gay is hard in Arkansas, try doing it in tights. But I stuck with it, stayed and practiced like it was the last thing in the world. And somehow, good God, somehow that got me all the way to New York where I had to practice twice as hard to be half as good as the rest. I wasn't a natural, Adam, I wasn't even tall enough to partner half the girls. But I _stayed_. I worked and I worked, and I fucking worked, and I finally got noticed. They started trying me out in longer runs, finally took me out of the _Nutcracker_. I got promoted to demi-soloist, which is—was amazing. It was amazing. It wasn't something that just _happened_ to me."

"Two weeks later I got into a cab to go to a Christmas party and woke up in the hospital," Kris says. "You want to understand what happened to me? Try imagining it, then; imagine how one minute you're listening to some stupid pop version of a Christmas carol on the radio, and the next you're hearing the doctor explain how they had to carve the metal out of your leg."

"Kris," Adam says. "Kris, please."

"What, don't you want to know about your investment?" Kris spits. "You'll be so proud to hear how far I've come. Hey, here's a good one; do you know that I didn't have a driver's license until after I returned home? I didn't even know how to pump gas. I'd never had a part time job, never filed for a loan. I could list everything Stravinsky ever did with Balanchine, but not who the vice president was."

"Kris, you don't have to tell me this," Adam says. He looks so concerned, so hurt.

"So I tried to kill myself," Kris says, and watches Adam's face fracture with pain and frustration—but not surprise. Because he knows this, too. Because he's _always_ known.

"You'll like this; I did it in the kitchen. I ate half a bottle of sleeping pills with a glass of milk." Adam comes close, trying to put an arm around him; Kris shoves him off. "My mom found me coming back from grocery shopping. Because that's the kind of goddamn fuck I was; I'd tried to drop dead where my mother would have to trip over me. _That's_ the kind of goddamn mental case I was, Adam."

Clearly Adam recognizes the words from the horrible moment in Idol's parking lot—which could never feel as horrible as this, oh God, why must it feel like this—because this time Adam _does_ grab him, hands firm on Kris' shoulders. "I'm sorry. I never should've said that, Kris, I am so sorry. Baby, please, stop and listen to me."

"What was your plan?" Kris asks. "I talked with Katy. Gerard, your friend with the body paint. The one you sent him to New York. Why? I can't dance, Adam. It's not the a traumatic block, it's plain physical fact. So, come on, what the hell were you hoping to accomplish?"

"I saw you with Brad," Adam says desperately. "That time on Halloween. You were helping him dance and you looked…I thought that if you could be a part of it again, even marginally, I thought you'd be happy."

If Kris didn't have a liter of adrenaline burning his stomach, he'd stare at him like a fool. "That's it? You saw me help Brad with one thing, one damn thing, and you decide to buy me a ballet company? Did you ever bother to count in the fact that I came to the other side of the country to _get away from all of that_?" Kris talks fast, a little breathless. The less air you use, the easier it is to get it out. "Nobody gives a shit about Tchaikovsky in California—they've got Katy Perry. So I came to LA. I got lucky; I got a job and then somehow I got a better job. I finally had a credit score. It was almost like having a life again. And then I met you and, and...."

His throat closes for a moment. He breathes hard to get past it.

"The only thing I've ever asked from you was that you don't lie to me," Kris says. "Instead, you went out to find the worst thing about me."

"I never meant to," Adam says. "Kris, I would never—for the love of God, don't you get it yet? I'm in love with you."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

"Actually, that's sort of what I'd always imagined you'd say," Adam says. He's growing calmer, anchored amidst disaster. Maybe this is something they teach in business school—crisis management or whatever.

"Are you honestly trying to be funny right now?" Kris asks.

"No! I just, I'm…." Adam lets go of his shoulders. "Please, listen to me. Okay? Just for a minute?" Kris fights the urge to knee him in the balls, which Adam apparently takes as acquiescence. "It was a mistake to snoop into your past, but it was never the sort of mistake I meant to make. I didn't go looking for something to use against you, I just wanted to understand your situation. I wanted to know how I could help you out."

"I never asked for your help!" Kris shouts. "Why can’t you ever get that through your head? I’ve never asked for help."

"Of course not," Adam shouts back, his calm façade shattering. "You’d rather breakdown in the middle of the street. You’d rather lose your apartment. You’d rather get stuck in a dead end job in a goddamn strip club."

"I’d rather be alone than be lied to."

****

+x+x+x+

"Oh, baby," Brad says when Kris climbs into the car, bleary and tired, hollowed to the bone. "Baby, what did he do?"

  
**X+x+x+x+X**  


  



	5. Chapter 5

**X+x+x+x+X**

_"When you dance, your purpose is not to get to a certain place on the floor. It's to enjoy each step along the way."_ **~Wayne Dyer**

It’s so much glaringly worse than any of the previous fights, and yet, ironically, it’s also so much easier. There’s no sense of expectation hanging over his head or festering inside, no messages in his voice mail, no surprises at work. Life is simple again.

Show over. Exit, stage left.

****

+x+x+x+

"He’s in Germany," Brad says. "Some kind of business explosion, apparently. From the sound of it, he’s not coming home for a while. I have the number of the hotel he’ll be staying in…."

Kris keeps wiping the glasses, eyes on his hands.

"Just something to keep in mind," Brad says.

****

+x+x+x+

Halfway through the week, Kris buys a cookbook.

It’s a cheap, ordinary hardcover from the bargain aisle with a picture, not a photo, of a garlic clove on the cover, but it makes an unexpectedly comfortable weight in Kris’ hand. Plus, he likes garlic. He pages through it in the line to the counter. At home, he reads from cover to cover, sitting cross-legged on his measly bed.

 _Roast Chicken and Other Stories_ has no glossy photos or mentions of the author’s restaurant, and generally fails to look like a good book for a beginner. Not that Kris is a 'beginning' anything, no way. Still, he reads the funny, simple introductions to the chapter topics (Chicken, Chocolate, Asparagus, Brains, Eggs, Garlic, etc.) and doesn’t regret the purchase.

"Who put _breasts_ in the mini-fridge?" Johnny demands the next night.

"It’s chicken," Kris says, and steals a couple of lemons from the bar stock, making a note to buy some olive oil on the way home.

He doesn’t have a skillet or a cast-iron ribbed grill for the vegetable side dish the book recommends; he makes do with some carrot sticks and a bit of pepper in a pool of oil for dabbing. On his next day off, he buys a skillet.

It’s a whole week after the chicken (and the soggy salsa, and the garlic purée, and baked eggplant that fails to brown but not to burn) that Kris asks Brady to drive him to Target to buy a dining table and dishes.

He’s not really surprised to find Brad behind the wheel when he comes to the parking garage on Saturday morning.

"Hey," Kris says.

"Hey," Brad says.

"I didn’t even know you had a license," Kris says, getting in the car.

"It’s an on and off deal. The insurance is a pain. Plus, Brady pitches a fit if I, like, turn on the radio while driving. Or drink a cup of coffee, or answer my phone."

"His attachment to your continued survival is puzzling," Kris says. He looks out the window and notices the street they’re passing. "This isn’t the way to Target."

"Of course not; we’re not going to Target. If you’re going to civilize that damn cave finally, you’re going to do it like a responsible cheapskate. We’re going to IKEA," Brad says. "Then we’ll photocopy the receipts and plaster Eric’s locker with them."

"Huh." In the bright morning light, it’s easy to spot the dabs of concealer under Brad’s eyes, if you don’t know to look for them. He’s been doing a lot of extra hours at Idol. "All right, then. I need plates, too, by the way. And some pots. Do they sell kitchen stuff there?"

"It’s _IKEA_ , Kris. They have _pet fridges_."

They don’t actually, because Brad tends to exaggerate the way other people do marathons, but they’ve got plenty of pots and bowls and forks to choose from. They also have a cut-rate, unexceptional dining room set on sale, which Brad scowls at the whole time Kris is writing down the little item number. Nonetheless, at the end of the trip he buys Kris a pink spatula and a pack of sponges.

On the drive back, Kris says, "I used to dance."

Brad nods. "Kind of figured that one out, actually."

"Ballet," Kris says. Brad raises his brows without taking his eyes off the road; he’s a very responsible driver, really. "I did the whole kit and caboodle: tights, pliés, Tchaikovsky, all of it."

"Did you have pointy shoes?"

"Pointe," Kris corrects, "and no."

"So," Brad says, after a moment. "You want to tell me what happened in New York?"

Amazingly, Kris does. It’s clumsy and kind of painful, the conversation full of sore spots and welts, at the end of which Brad pulls over, turns off the engine, climbs across the gear shift into Kris lap, and wraps his arms around Kris like he’s trying to pop Kris in two.

"Your elbow is gouging me," Kris says after about ten minutes.

"Shut up," Brad says.

"Just an observation."

In answer, Brad digs a little deeper into Kris’ kidney. "Shut. Up. We’re cuddling. We’re going to sit here and cuddle until I no longer feel sick to my goddamn stomach, and then we’re going to call everyone, _everyone_ , and we’re going out to eat until you have to be rolled home. And I won’t ever say a word about this to anyone unless you tell me otherwise, but you should know that Brady and I consider you our adopted Chinese baby, and the idea of you ever feeling that way is like being shot. So just shut up, Kris Allen, and let me sit here and cuddle the shit out of you for a while, okay?"

Kris finds that he is, in fact, very much okay with that.

****

+x+x+x+

"I’m leaving," Brad says during Kris’ latest attempt to civilize asparagus. "Idol. This is my last month."

"Greener pastures?" Kris asks. They both know which meadow he’s talking about.

"Simon offered me the manager position so…." Brad shrugs, thin shoulders bobbing. "It’s a heck of a pay raise, and there’s a chance I’ll have a schedule that lets me see my husband awake sometimes. Really, I’m starting to think the marriage is an hallucination."

"That’s great," Kris says. "I mean it, Brad. I think that’s great. You’re going to scare the hell out of everyone there."

"As is the plan," Brad says. "But, whatever, I’m not reading you the company newsletter, I’m telling you so that you realize now is the time to properly appreciate my company and not punch me in the face."

"This is not reassuring me about what you’re going to say next."

"He loves you," Brad says. "'He' being Adam and ‘loves you’ being in love with you. In total, balls-deep, bizarre love with, pay attention to this one, _you_."

"I know," Kris says. "It doesn’t change anything."

"All right, then," Brad says. "Let’s try this: laundry."

"Laundry," Kris says.

"There was no way in any of the seven rings of hell that I was ever going to do Adam’s laundry."

"Okay."

"And there was no reason for Adam to do mine," Brad says. "We’re talking real laundry here, not dry cleaning. Machines, detergent, lint traps, the whole tedious ordeal."

"Right," Kris says. "Wait, I’m sorry— What?"

"Brady does the laundry every Thursday," Brad says.

"Brad, seriously, I have no idea where you’re going with this."

"I’m saying that I never even imagined Adam doing my, or our, laundry, but I absolutely rely on the fact that come Friday morning, there will be fresh socks in my drawer. I need those socks; they define my week."

"Adam never did my laundry," Kris says.

"No, but he destroyed innocent groceries in your honor," Brad says. "I’m not impressed that he took off his pants before you knew his last name, but the fact that he stayed to help clean up afterward? That’s notable. So is the fact that he was desperate enough to spend time with you that he resorted to bringing you along to look at bathroom tiles. I realize it’s easy to be impressed by Iceland, or the new club or, God, whatever other scheme he tried to insert into the I’ve Got A Kris Allen Complex parade, but focus on the real stuff. He made a budget for your electricity bill. He, I don’t know…. He probably tried to do the dishes here at some point."

"He did," Kris says. Brad raises his brows: _see?_ "First off, he was terrible at it and got water everywhere. Furthermore, who cares? What, is his housework supposed to be our wedding vow? He rinses a coffee mug, I ignore the fact that he lied to me about the one thing he sure as hell knew I wouldn’t want to be lied to about? This wasn’t an accident, Brad; he knew what he was doing the whole time."

"Okay! Fine! He lied!" Brad throws both hands in the air. "Tell me you were one hundred percent honest in every conversation you two had, and I’ll staple my mouth shut. At least admit that as far as lies go, this one was coming from good intentions. He was trying to take care of you."

"Yeah, no hooker overtones there," Kris says sourly.

"Look, fine, I give up. I’m going to ask you one thing—one thing, Kris—and that’ll be it. I won’t bring up anything Lambert-esque again unless you ask me to, deal?"

Kris waves his hand: _go ahead_.

"Do you want to be with him?"

Kris stares at him.

"Right now," Brad clarifies. "Do you wish you were sitting here with him right now? Because that's what it all boils down to, sweetie. Not the sex or the apartment hunting, not the money or how much junk you two have in common. It's not about whether you can foresee your combined retirement plan or who thinks whose mother is a withered toxic crone. It's not even about who says I blank you, it's—" —again with the hands—"—where do you want to be today, at this exact moment?"

****

+x+x+x+

The museum makes Kris feel like a tourist, which isn’t exactly a new sensation, but for once the feeling is not alienating. Yes, he’s a visitor here, but so is everyone else. It’s comforting.

He walks around dutifully reading the little plaques to see who the artists are. He reads the captions under each painting and photograph, too. Some of the images are strange to the point of memorable, but some are just strange and nothing else. He wonders how the artists worked, not in terms of technique or paint mixes, but how they gripped their brushes, whether their feet ached from standing or if they sat while painting. Did they reach upward or down when stretching their backs? Did they wear old, comfortable layers that got peeled as the canvas filled and the paint layers thickened? Did they snack?

Kris wanders around for two hours before he admits to being nervous. It’s stupid, but he is. He’s nervous about seeing pictures made by a man he never met and never will meet, who probably wouldn’t have been very interested in meeting Kris if the magical opportunity ever had presented itself. It occurs to Kris, a little hysterically, that he had a better chance of meeting Rothko as a bartender than a ballet dancer. He would’ve hated Kris’ layered cocktails, though. The thought is somewhat bracing.

The temporary Rothko room (on loan from the Tate museum, the plaque helpfully informs) is surprisingly hushed. The walls are a muted, dull grey, and the lighting is subdued. Kris is surprised to see a low bench in the middle of the compact room. Somehow he'd thought they would encourage people to stand while looking, he’s not sure why.

Kris sits.

The paintings are not identical in size except for the fact that they are _big_. Big as doors, though not quite as huge as the windows of some of Adam’s ridiculous potential apartments; the thought makes Kris smile. The door metaphor feels comfortable; the paintings are engrossing and wide open. The red—and oh, they are _red_ —isn’t bloody or hot; it’s the red of an excellent wine in a cheap mug, the red of a dipping sauce rife with ginger and tamarind. It’s the red of a gift ribbon or an ugly pair of socks. There are dark outlines floating in the paint, wide and enticing as the view at the highest floor.

Kris tries to imagine someone actually painting the giants he’s looking at. There are nine in the room with him, but there are more in DC and Kyoto. It’s not the whole lot, of course; Rothko painted nearly forty in an attempt to figure out his grand assignment. Was he happy to receive the call that offered the commission, or merely excited? Kris wonders how long paintings are kept in galleries. Until they’re sold, naturally, but what about the ones that are too expensive for the moment or simply not eye-catching enough to warrant a check? There must be an expiration date, like there is for everything beautiful.

Except.... Kris rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward. The paintings aren’t beautiful, he realizes, not really. _Giselle_ is beautiful, _Swan Lake_ is beautiful. _Coppelia_ , _Don Quixote_ , _La Bayadere_ , _Jewels_. Even the goddamned _Nutcracker_. Those are beautiful, enchanting and deliberate…provided the audience never sees backstage. What’s surrounding him now isn’t _beautiful_ ; the paintings aren’t orchestras or gems, or a sixty-foot tree full of fairy lights and music. They’re _wormholes_. The murals, disassembled and divorced from their original purpose, are spellbinding, but mute. For a moment, Kris wishes with his heart and bones that Rothko had given the murals to the Four Seasons, if only for a night. He imagines the meal that would’ve happened in a room boxed in with such apocalyptic, drunken wallpaper. Foie gras would have withered on its plate, the accompanying champagne bubbles evaporating in one gust. The tender duck confit would fossilize.

 _Only the pistachios would survive_ , Kris thinks, and gets out his phone.

****

+x+x+x+

"—finely diced. Do you hear me, Kris? They have to be finely diced, or don't you even bother."

"Momma, I know." Kris tilts his chin sideways to better pinch the phone between chin and neck. "It'll be fine. I'm going to start chopping right now."

"Did you chill them first?" she asks, suspicious. "Kris, you've got to chill the onions or you'll burst your nose crying."

"You already told me—" There's a knock on the door. "Momma, I've got to go, all right? I'll call you tomorrow?"

"Alright, sweetie. Just don't forget that they have to be—"

"Finely diced, got it," Kris says, taking the phone in hand. "I love you, Momma."

"I love you too, baby."

Kris sets the phone on the counter and wipes the cornmeal and baking soda off his hands, using the towel tucked into his waistband. It's a bit of a lost cause with the amount of cornmeal on his shirt and knees, but at least he'll have the satisfaction of making an effort. Sometimes you just have to try, Kris thinks, and opens the door.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi," Adam says. He's wearing a suit with a subtle shine like gunmetal and a curved shawl collar, a pale blue shirt peeking out: cool, not flashy. He looks like someone coming home from work. He's also holding a bottle of...something.

"Flying Goat Cellars Goat Bubbles?" Kris reads when handed the bottle. "Okay, seriously?"

"It's supposed to be good," Adam says, then laughs. It's a little shaky. "Honestly, I have no idea whether it's crap or bliss; I grabbed it out of blind desperation. I figured, hey, if nothing else, it'd be a decent ice breaker."

"Seems to be working fine so far," Kris says.

"I guess so." Adam clears his throat and gestures across the threshold. "So, can I...."

"Oh! Yeah, sure, come on in." Kris steps back to let him in, one hand around the bottle's neck and the other automatically combing at his hair. He remembers the cornmeal a second after Adam says, "Hey, hold on, you've a got a little something in your— Actually, you've got a bit of something everywhere."

"Sorry," Kris says. "I've sort of made a mess of things."

"Yeah," Adam says. "I know how that goes."

****

+x+x+x+

Kris leaves Adam briefly to duck into the bedroom. When he comes out with his prize under one arm, Adam is at the counter with his jacket off and his eyeliner swimming. The onions, however, are finely diced indeed.

"I should've chilled those," Kris admits.

Adam nods rapidly, bringing up a hand to rub at his stinging nose.

"Whoa, no." Kris hurries to intercept with a damp towel. "You're going to blow out your nose."

"Is that a real thing?" Adam asks warily, but wipes his hands. He scrunches his nose, trying to flex, and succeeding in looking completely ridiculous. Kris grins helplessly at the picture, and Adam smiles back, almost shy.

"I got you something," Kris blurts out. He fumbles with the pack, half dropping the folded pieces onto the kitchen floor before he manages to hold out the folded bundle to Adam.

"Thank you?" Adam tries. He takes the pack and turns over the large, battered squares. "That's very nice...okay, Kris, help me out; why are you giving me old cardboard, oh my god…." He stares at Kris. "It's the table."

"It used to be," Kris says. "It got disassembled last week. Seemed kind of dumb to keep it around, you know, what with the real thing in place."

"I noticed that, by the way," Adam interjects.

"But I didn't want to just toss it out," Kris hurries on. "It… it got me through some tough times."

"Right." Adam's face dims. "You've got to settle your debts, it's only fair. Very polite, yeah."

"What?" Kris says.

"Never mind," Adam says. His smile is out: stiff, but willing. "So I'm getting your table's remains why exactly? Not that I don't appreciate the war trophy; the table and I have history."

"I thought it'd be a nice souvenir for you to take to Germany," Kris says. "When you go back. If you wanted to. Take the table, I mean! The table, not Germany, I mean I know you want to go back to Germany, that's not...um."

Adam is staring at him, mouth closed and hands full of cardboard. This is at once so much more awkward than Kris imagined and so much more tempting than he'd expected. Obviously, he went the wrong way about this, because any moment now Adam is going to shake his head _no_ , is going to walk away, walk out, is going to say—

"Is something burning?"

****

+x+x+x+

Making hush puppies, even slightly singed ones, is only a messy business if you want it to be—or if you're completely hopeless, so naturally by the end of it Adam's blue shirt is spotty with oil and practically organic in content, and Kris has buttermilk spilled down his back. Neither of them is quite sure how it happened. Adam considers snapping a photo for posterity.

"I don't think future generations will benefit from this as much as you're predicting," Kris says, pulling off the unfortunate shirt. It lands with a sopping sound in the sink. " _Yech._ I'm disgusting."

"Absolutely revolting," Adam says. "Here, turn around, let's see if I can sponge the worst of this off before you start dripping. You're like a melted gingerbread man back there."

Kris opens his mouth to say something witty—or at least make a game attempt—but closes it instead and lets Adam swipe a wet towel—thank God, he's got plenty of towels now—across his back. The water makes him a shiver a bit.

"Sorry," Adam says, voice softer than flour.

Kris shakes his head, and Adam goes to rinse and wring out the towel, and then Kris turns around and takes it out of his hand. Adam lets him, and Kris puts his hands on his arms and kisses him.

Adam tastes like good cornbread, salty and somewhat greasy, a little sweet, seasoned by the testing bites of the hush puppies. His tongue is soft and shy against Kris', his breath slightly short. He doesn't push into it until Kris starts pulling back, and then he surges forward and wraps his arms around Kris like he's going to throw them both off a tower.

Kris doesn't mind; he's ready to jump.

"For the record," he whispers, pulling back for air, "I love you, too."

**X+x+x+x+X  
e * n * d**

**Author's Note:**

>  **Author's Notes:** This story…had some growing pains. It started over at [aianonlovefest](http://aianonlovefest.livejournal.com/4818.html?thread=3628498&format=light#t3628498), fell on its face while the author fell into Kradam, got picked up, got lost, and overall somehow managed to survive two years of profoundly neglectful parenting. Luckily, it had a pair of truly awesome godparents: [untamedfilly](http://untamedfilly.livejournal.com/) and [neednotwant](http://neednotwant.livejournal.com/). Without you two, this thing would never be here (and neither would I.) ~~Enjoy your cameos!~~
> 
> Every monster needs a mad scientist; TTR was lucky enough to get its mentoring from the legendary, incendiary, and wholly outstanding [samanthahirr](http://samanthahirr.livejournal.com/). She didn't just step in to beta the story in the eleventh hour, she put up with months of chatter, whining, and that one time _I needed to have all the cheese_. (Unfortunately, some parts of the text popped too late to save. So if you see a typo or glaring plot hole, that's all me.) She also culled paragraphs that no one should have to stomach, made Kris have feelings, and wrote 99% of the summary. MADAM, YOU ARE MY TARDIS. AND MY TONY STARK.
> 
> Hugs, kisses, and dire pleas of forgiveness go out to [](http://faerielissa.livejournal.com/>faerielissa</a>%20who%20managed%20to%20produce%20pitch%20perfect%20art%20despite%20<i>never%20having%20seen%20a%20draft%20of%20the%20actual%20damn%20story.</i>%20She%20is%20possibly%20made%20out%20of%20awesome%20and%20vampire%20kittens,%20the%20lab%20results%20were%20optimistic%20but%20inconclusive.%0A%0AThe%20final%20hug%20goes%20to%20the%20KBB%20Big%20Bang%20BOOM%20mailing%20list.%20You%20are%20all%20truly,%20truly%20warped%20human%20beings.%20<small>So%20call%20me,%20maybe?</small>%0A%0A\(PS:%20The%20only%20thing%20I%20know%20about%20ballet%20is%20what%20it%20takes%20to%20get%20kicked%20out%20of%20three%20dance%20schools.%20<i>Russian</i>%20dance%20schools.%20Translation:%20this%20is%20not%20the%20place%20to%20look%20for%20accuracy.%20<strike>Or%20realism</strike>.\)</myroot>)


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